


Johnlock/Mystrade Christmas Advent (2018)

by whitehart



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Smut, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Sherlock Christmas Advent 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-12 00:28:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 35,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16862833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitehart/pseuds/whitehart
Summary: This is a continuous story through the prompt list. Chapters are all connected to one another.Complete.Prompt list = Chapter titles





	1. Crime Scene

_I'll have a Blue Christmas without you_  
_I'll be so blue just thinking about you_  
_Decorations of red on a green Christmas tree_  
_Won't be the same dear, if you're not here with me_

 

Sherlock snorted while he walked past the corpse, or bits and pieces of it, while the shop across the street blasted Elvis Presley’s Blue Christmas.

“What’s so amusing now?” John asked while examining a limb. “This is pretty chopped up. The killer is probably an amateur, or first-timer.”

“Did you not hear that song? Fits perfectly with the crime scene…” The consulting detective trailed off, focused on the splatters of blood on the Christmas tree, decorations still in a box underneath it.

As Sherlock stayed in his mind, analyzing over the evidence in the crime scene and a few overheard conversations earlier (when he sneaked around DS _whatever-her-name-is_ during her interview with the neighbours), John stood back near the main entrance, staring at Sherlock in his full glory.

When compared to other crime scenes, this was not the worst. There was fairly little blood where the body parts are. It was obvious that the victim was killed in the bathtub, later drained of her blood before the killer chopped her up and laid pieces of her body in the living room.

But seeing Sherlock standing in the middle of it all made John’s heart leap. His best friend whom he’s in love with, next to a Christmas tree, sunlight beaming in streaks with a little snow out the window… seemed like an angel in disguise.

“John. Why are you staring at me like that?” Sherlock noticed something off with how John is behaving. He was looking at the splatter patterns on the Christmas tree when he caught John’s face through the corner of his eye. There was something endearing about the way his eyes beamed, and it made Sherlock… feel.

John seemed to be in his own thoughts when Sherlock spoke. He blinked a few times, hard, and almost rubbed his face with his rubber gloves still on. “Shit,” he exclaimed when the stained gloves were centimeters from his face, “it’s just, you look… ethereal. With the window, snow, Christmas tree and all that.”

“Ethe-- ethereal?” Sherlock stuttered. John thinks he’s…

“Gorgeous.” _About time,_ John thought to himself. In that moment he seemed to have found courage that he hadn’t possess in the past year and decided to press on. He took another step while taking off the rubber gloves, throwing them on the floor without giving it another look where it landed.

Sherlock stood, stunned. He was filing away what John just said. John said he was _gorgeous_ . That was the first, and would be the most cherished adjective in his Mind Palace. John had called him all sorts - amazing, brilliant, genius, fantastic, marvelous, incredible, _unbelievable_ … albeit that last one was when he brought home six tongues for an experiment. But _ethereal_ and _gorgeous_ , those were the first, and mainly about his physical appearance. Then the puzzles fell into place - John is physically attracted to Sherlock.

“You are physically attracted to me.” Sherlock said in a blurt when he made that connection in his head, slamming doors of his mind palace and haphazardly locking up. He had to get back and make sure John was.

“I have been, for years, Sherlock.” John answered, slowly smoothing his fingers up and down Sherlock’s forearm on his side. When Sherlock stood there, stunned, John thought he had fucked this up, royally. “You… if… if you’re uncomfortable knowing that fact, I’ll just go and get somewhere else to live. But I really, really still want to be your best friend, Sherlock. You’re the closest person I have to family. Hell, you are even closer than family. I’m sor--”

John instantly shut his mouth when Sherlock reached out to hug him.

“I’m not good at this, emotion thing,” Sherlock whispered into John’s shoulder, “but I want you to stay… as my partner. You’re all I have John.”

“About damned time!” Greg shouted when he walked in and saw John in Sherlock’s arms. “Pay up bitches!” He shouted with glee as he spun out into the hallway where most of the officers were.

Some of them came in a verified DI Lestrade’s story, some just came in to make them change their mind. But to every question, John would proudly say “yes we are together now", "more like boyfriends”, and Sherlock held John’s hand in a tight grip, wanting to go home and be alone with John.

“Alright, enough.” John finally said. “It’s a bloody crime scene and we’re in here discussing my potential sex life? Come on Sherlock, we’re leaving!”

“Finally.” Sherlock huffed with an eye roll directed towards the officers. He willingly allow John to pull him out and away from the crime scene, into a cab...

And home. Together.

The crime scene can wait.


	2. Mistletoe

John stumbled up the stairs right behind Sherlock, both trying to get behind closed doors as quickly as possible. He could hear Mrs Hudson puttering about with the cooking channel on. For a split second, he remembered that he hasn’t invited her to their Christmas party yet, but it all flew out of his mind when he heard Sherlock calling out for him.

How wonderful the day had turned out to be.  _ This may be the case that breaks the internet if he had included this part in his blog _ , John thought to himself. The door to their flat was ajar, and he can see Sherlock standing right behind it.

Walking in, John closed the door behind him with one foot while his hands reached out for Sherlock. The consulting detective stood still. He wanted to pull Sherlock towards him but the infuriating man wouldn’t budge. John moved instead, pressing his body against Sherlock’s, arms wrapped around his waist.

“John.” Sherlock said, but it sounded like a plea. John looked up into his eyes when he noticed Sherlock wasn’t hugging him back.

“Am I reading this wrong? Did I… was this all a misunderstanding?” John panicked. Sherlock did say ‘partner’, but what if he didn’t mean romantically?

“No. I meant it  _ that _ way, as you had repeatedly emphasised earlier at the crime scene,  _ boyfriend _ .”

John hummed in contentment and hugged Sherlock tighter.

“I’m just not good at this… intimacy… thing.” Sherlock stuttered, one hand coming up to pat the back of John’s head.

“Right.” John loosened up, pulling himself away enough to give Sherlock some space, but close enough that he could still hear Sherlock breathing near him. He looked up again, wanting to stare into those crystal blue-green eyes, but a mistletoe above Sherlock caught his attention. Was that why Sherlock wouldn’t move?

Sherlock, being the prat that he is, read John’s mind again.

“Yes, and I would like us to kiss under the mistletoe.” Sherlock said with a smile.

“Oh you secretly romantic sod!” John exclaimed. He grabbed Sherlock’s head with both hands and pulled the detective down, pressing their lips together in a kiss. It was a firm kiss filled with want. It only lasted six seconds, but it was all John needed to keep his heart from beating out of his chest.

Then he felt Sherlock’s muscles locking up, his whole body suddenly rigid. John recognised that look. He’s gone into his mind palace. With one arm wrapped around Sherlock’s waist and the other under his knees, John carried him up and dropped Sherlock onto his chair. As if Sherlock’s body had a mind of its own, he went into his standard thinking pose.

The moment John’s lips left his, Sherlock chased down every touch, every taste, every smell, every emotion that coursed through him, piling them into a box and ran straight to John’s room in his mind palace. The room was modeled after their flat. He placed the box on a pedestal in the middle of the living room right where they stood, and unraveled the content from its box. 

A single mistletoe, to remind him of their first kiss underneath it.


	3. Photo(s)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this in under an hour! Woohoo! So much fluff my heart is about to burst into pieces!

Sherlock woke up not in his own bed. Sleep was something he doesn’t do very often, but when he does, it takes his brain approximately twenty minutes to come back online. Normally, in that twenty minutes, he would roll around his own bed, enjoy the minutes of calmness in his mind, fully embracing that short time when his mind is not overloaded with data from his senses.

But this morning, it was uncomfortable. The sheets were scratchy, unfamiliar smells and a pillow too rigid for his own liking. His neck screamed ‘get off’ constantly. Off-routine made him uncomfortable. He had half a mind to tear this room down and give it his best revenge…

Until he saw the photo propped up on the nightstand.

It was a photo of him and John from The Nightmare Wedding (that’s what he calls it in his mind of John and Mary’s wedding). Mary was cut out from the photo, it was just him and John, side by side, dressed to the nines.

His hand definitely had a mind of its own. It reached out and caressed John’s face on the photo. Then it hit him like a train - he was in John’s room, John’s bed.

Slept in John’s bed.

The other hand also had a mind of its own, reaching out to the other side and it hit something.

“Jesus, Sherlock!” John jerked awake when Sherlock slapped him in the face.

“Sorry… I…” Sherlock looked at John, hair sticking out in every direction and his eyes puffy from sleep.

“Didn’t have to slap me awake, you know? Bit not good, that.” John sat up and stretched.

Sherlock couldn’t keep his eyes away from John’s naked torso. His brain was still warming up. He needed to remember what happened, but there’s a boot sequence and he can’t make it go any faster lest he mess up his memory.

“What…” It was all Sherlock could mumble out before John laid back down, propping his head on one arm facing Sherlock.

“We didn’t do anything other than sleep.” John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock on the forehead. “Brain still booting up?”

Sherlock nodded. His mental capacity was up to sixty-five percent now, but he’s still a little disoriented from waking up in a different (uncomfortable) bed.

The frown on Sherlock’s face told John he’s confused. John laid one arm over Sherlock’s torso above the duvet and pulled them closer together. He leaned his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder. “We kissed under the mistletoe. You went and stored that in your mind palace for a few hours, woke up, we had dinner and worked on the case. You solved it just before dawn and fell asleep sitting on the floor. I carried you up here to sleep because there’s some petri dishes growing stuff on one side of your bed. I wasn’t going to sleep with mould or whatever the hell those are.”

“You could have left me to sleep on the sofa. There was no need to carry me up here.” Sherlock retorted, ignoring John completely about the petri dishes. If John knew what they were, Sherlock would be sleeping in the basement for the next two weeks.

“I wanted to be close to you. We’ve lost so much time, haven’t we?” John noticed Sherlock had turned his head to look at the photo on his nightstand. “That was the only photo I have with you that was not a newspaper cutout…”

“I know, John. I have the same one…” Sherlock reached down into the sheets and patted his trousers…

He wasn’t wearing his trousers. But he still had his pants on…

Oh god no.

John was quietly grinning. His face was still buried against Sherlock’s shoulder. He knew where Sherlock’s train of thought was headed. He tried to hold it in, but ended up bursting out in laughter after a minute.

“You’re adorable.” John said, referring to Sherlock’s bumblebee pants.

“Never use that word to describe me, ever again.”

“Ok. Your pants are adorable, and you are the most amazing man I will ever know.”

Sherlock shot up and out of bed. He knew he was overreacting, but he loves bees. There was nothing to be ashamed of, and definitely not something to be laughed at.

“Hey, Sherlock.” John felt guilty for laughing at Sherlock now. “Sorry, wasn’t laughing at you.” He got out of bed and hugged Sherlock from behind while the detective was trying to pull his trousers up. “I’m just so happy that I get to know that side of you now that we’re together. Really, really happy.”

Sherlock didn’t stop putting on his trousers. When he had pulled the zipper up, he reached into his left pocket and pulled out a leather-bound notebook. It was thin and probably only had a few sheets of paper in it. He turned around and pushed John back to sit down on the edge of the bed. With one swift pull, he freed the knot and opened up the notebook, revealing a fragile piece of newspaper cutout, a piece of note and the same photo John has on his nightstand.

“I always keep this with me. It was supposed to be yours when I overdosed on that plane.” He held it out to John.

John took the bundle in his hands and looked closer at its contents. The newspaper cutout was a photo of him and Sherlock from their first case published in the newspapers, where Sherlock wore that ridiculous deerstalker. The other photo was the exact same one on his nightstand, where Mary does not exist.

The note, was what broke John’s heart.

_ These two photos represented my life. It started with John Watson, and it ends without. Life is meaningless without light, and I have, sadly, extinguished light away with my own deeds. _ _   
_ _ This note is also my will, where I will everything that I had to John Hamish Watson. _ _   
_ _ I can only wish that I would live on in his heart, if there would be any room for me. _ _   
_ _ I sincerely wish that life would treat you well, for you deserve nothing but the best. _ _   
_ __ Always yours, WSSH

On the back side of the note, was a list of narcotics and various dosages. There was a tick beside the first three, and John realised those were the same drugs that were found in Sherlock’s blood test when he overdosed on the plane.

“I wasn’t sure if I would survive. I wrote the note after the second dose.” Sherlock slumped and sat down next to John, wrapping his arms around himself.

“Sherlock, why do you think I have that photo of us by my bed?” When Sherlock shook his head, John pressed on. “I wanted to wake up every morning next to you, seeing your face. My life truly started with you, Sherlock. And I never want it to end.” He reached over and pulled Sherlock into his arms, turning sideway to get closer.

Sherlock felt tears threatening to fall, but held it back with a few sniffles. He wrapped himself around John and leaned back down on the bed, pulling John on top of him. They laid there for close to an hour, just in each other’s arms, enjoying a peaceful morning snuggle.

“Forever, John. I want you around forever. You can never leave me.”

“Me too, love. I won’t leave. I promise.” John held his head up to look at Sherlock. The look of contentment in his face said it all. But there was one more thing nagging at the back of John’s mind.

The photo.

Once again, as if they had rehearsed it, Sherlock grabbed the photo, holding it up where John could see.

“Do you think we can take another photo today? I don’t look very happy in this, do I?” John asked.

“Neither was I. And yes, we can take as many photos as you’d like John. As many as you want.”

They spent the rest of the day around town with a tripod and a camera, taking photographs of themselves in seemingly random places, but only they knew the significance of it all - old crime scenes. And the photo that won its place on the mantle was the one they took in Molly’s lab. 

Because there was where it all started, where love found its place in John and Sherlock’s life.


	4. Slumber Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This will be as close to a slumber party as possible for a Holmes.

You would have never expected a Holmes to host a slumber party, ever. Even when they were young children, they barely had any friends. Mycroft and Sherlock were each other’s best friend, along with their family dog, Redbeard.

No one would have thought Mycroft and Sherlock would become each other’s nemesis too.

No one would have thought they would have any other friend except each other.

No one would have thought they would have someone to love for the rest of their lives.

This one instance, was the closest thing to a real slumber party Sherlock will ever experience.

 

“Sure mate. You can crash at ours.” John said to whoever it was on the other side of the line. “No worries, I’ll sort him out. Cheers.” He hung up.

“Why are you offering my sofa to whoever it was?” Sherlock asked.

“Firstly, not your sofa. Ours. Secondly, we won’t need two bedrooms anymore, do we? And that’s Greg. Mycroft’s kicked him out for whatever reason. I guess we’ll find out tonight.”

“Who? He lives alone.” Sherlock questioned innocently. From the look on his face, John was certain that Sherlock wasn’t acting. He truly had no idea Greg had moved in with Mycroft… or had deleted it.

“Lestrade. They’ve been dating for years! You have to stop deleting those things, like Greg’s name.”

“Ugh.” Sherlock pouted and flipped around on the sofa to face the backrest.

 

“Hey, thanks for letting me stay here. I brought Chinese, alright?” Greg said as he carried the takeaway on one hand, the other holding a small overnight bag.

“You obviously think that you’re not going to stay for long, judging by the size of that bag. I’ve changed the sheets. You can sleep in my room tonight.” John offered and took the takeaway from Greg.

That evening was enlightening, to John at least. Sherlock seemed uninterested, puttering about the kitchen doing his experiment.

“I took a cheap shot at him, and wouldn’t accept my apology. That bag,” Greg pointed to his overnight bag on the floor next to the sofa, “he packed it, threw it out on the foyer and shoved me out.”

“Brutal. But if he’s really done with you, he would’ve sent a truck with your belongings by now…”

_ Ziiiiiiip! _

Both John and Greg turned over when they heard a zipper being pulled open and found Sherlock crouching beside the sofa, opening Greg’s overnight bag, pulling out the contents one by one.

“Damn it Sherlock! That’s someone else’s property! Have some tact will ya?” John yelled and pulled Sherlock away. But it was too late. Sherlock had already pulled everything out of the bag, overthrown its contents across the floor.

There was a magazine along with some overnight clothes.

A Playboy magazine.

“Oh my god. You think this was why he was so pissed at me?” Greg held up the magazine and waved it at John.

“Sherlock, any insights to this? You’re probably--”

Before John could mention how similar Sherlock and Mycroft’s minds are, Sherlock had already beat him to it.

“Lestrade. You’re with a man now. You have a magazine full of nude women. He must have thought you weren’t… satisfied… NO! Stop. I can’t go down this train of thought. Do not ask me to deduce my brother’s personal affairs… UGH!” With one last stomp, Sherlock fled to his bedroom and slammed the door shut.

“This, along with you pinching his stomach, he must have thought you’re changing your mind? You’ve seen how Mycroft reacts when Sherlock makes fun of his relationship with cakes.” John added.

“Right. I need to go back and apologise… this… it came with my stuff. I didn’t even pack my own things when I moved in. He just got someone to go grab everything and brought it to his place.”

Greg quickly stuffed all his belongings back into his bag, and was about to run out the door when Sherlock came back to the living room with an old photo album.

“What’s this?” Greg asked, dropping his bag to take the album.

“Give him a bit of time to simmer down. He’s probably filing now. He’ll realise he’s made a mistake soon enough, probably in the morning about eight fifteen.” Sherlock said without explaining what he had just handed to Lestrade.

“And this is?” John asked.

“Album. To keep you both occupied tonight. Want some chocolate milk and cookies for your slumber party?” Sherlock retorted sarcastically. “I need you both off my back tonight while I complete my experiment. Final stages. Very critical.”

John could tell Sherlock was already zoning out when he stopped talking in full sentences.

“We’ll have beer. Now, that’ll make it a party.” John said to Sherlock. He turned and looked at Greg, whispering “can’t trust anything in the fridge that isn’t sealed.”

They ended up staying up all night going through Sherlock and Mycroft’s photos from their childhood. When Sherlock finished his experiment at four in the morning, he joined them and told them stories of each photograph, until he stumbled across one from six years ago in their family home, the year he met Lestrade. Also the year Greg started dating Mycroft.

“Fuck. No.” Sherlock suddenly whispered halfway through that story.

“What was it… oh, shit.” John suddenly realised what that photograph had reminded Sherlock of.

Greg was confused. He saw the date printed at the corner, and knew that was the year he started dating Mycroft, but what was so unpleasant about it?

“Erm…” John broke the silence. “Earlier that year, Sherlock broke into your flat to find a case file, thinking that you’d brought it home, but instead you brought home… Mycroft. We heard you… well, more Mycroft. He’d got your name right a couple of times, and he was making an effort, but after that... I think that’s why he stubbornly refuses to call you by your name ever since.”

Greg felt his cheeks warm up. “Yeah… well, he’s pretty loud--”

“Stop! This little slumber party ends. NOW. Go to sleep now… Ugh, can’t get it out of my head!”

“If you hear my name tonight, don’t panic.” John whispered and winked in Greg’s direction before going after Sherlock. “Goodnight Greg!” He shouted from Sherlock’s bedroom and closed the door with a loud click, leaving Greg alone in the living room.

_ I guess they will be having a slumber party for two tonight…  _ Greg thought to himself before going up and falling asleep with Mycroft on his mind.


	5. Fairy Tales

Mycroft Holmes was not one who believed in fairy tales. Not since he was five. Fiction, he would say, made up by men and women who pen down their darkest fantasies, desperately trying to escape reality. Prince Charming does not exist, neither does love at first sight.

At least that was what Mycroft believed in, until his eyes landed on a silver-haired Detective Inspector outside Sherlock’s intensive care ward.

Sherlock had, again, slipped through Mycroft’s surveillance, got high, showed up at a crime scene and solved the case for the detectives. He had been doing that for a few months now. Most detectives from New Scotland Yard just ignored him, but this time, one of them actually cared. If there was a god, he really had shown mercy to both Holmeses, because if this DI had not cared, Sherlock would have died from that overdose, one hundred fifty eight meters from the crime scene.

He had no obligations to stay at the hospital, but he did. As Mycroft walked towards Sherlock’s room, he saw that DI’s silver hair tangled between his fingers, hunched over one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs outside the room.

“Ahem.” Mycroft cleared his throat to get the DI’s attention.

The DI looked up, puzzled. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I believe so.” Mycroft decided to sit down next to the DI. “I’m Mycroft Holmes. His brother.” His head tilted towards the room.

“Ah, right. DI Greg Lestrade. Pleasure to meet you, sorry ‘bout the circumstances.” He reached out a hand. Mycroft reached back and clasped it in a handshake, and both did not let go for a long while…

Mycroft had never in his entire career sit next to someone he hasn’t at least monitored for two years. Never in his career shake someone’s hand for more than two seconds. Never in his life felt more conflicted. One side of him wanted to stay behind with his brother, the other side of him wanted to take the DI out for supper.

It was love at first sight.

Ultimately, Sherlock won. But it wasn’t the last Mycroft would see of Greg Lestrade, because unlike Mycroft, Greg Lestrade pursues what he wants.

 

It has been six years since they’ve first met for coffee to discuss Sherlock’s road to recovery. Four since they’ve started officially, albeit secretly, dating. Two years since Gregory had moved in with him.

But this has to be the first fight that made Mycroft doubt himself more than once.

While Mycroft did his ‘filing’ (that’s what he calls his process of tidying his mind), finding the memory of first meeting Greg brought him to tears. He realised that his own insecurities and jealousy of a bloody magazine may have driven Gregory away.

He remembered how nervous Greg was on their first date, the way he looked at Mycroft the first time they slept together, the first time they had sex, the first time Greg went down on him in his office… every single time, he had this look of adoration in his eyes… even that morning before the argument, when Greg handed him a cup of coffee.

_ “Good morning. Did you sleep well?” _

_ “Of course. I always do when you’re next to me.” _

_ “Hmm. I love you, ‘Croft. I really do. As much as you love that coffee. apparently” _

_Our day could have ended with both of us here on this couch cuddling, or more..._

Mycroft sighed. He knew he had overreacted that afternoon finding that Playboy magazine. Looking back at the evidence, it was clear that he had not opened that box since moving in, and the only reason they’ve found it was because Mycroft insisted on clearing Greg’s belongings out of the attic. That fight was uncalled for. Recalling the moment he shoved Greg out the front door made his heart clench.

 

The next morning at eight, Mycroft found himself on the doorsteps of 221B Baker Street. From the looks of it, none of them had woken up yet - or that was what he thought. He was shocked like a deer caught in headlights when Greg opened the front door and pulled him in, snogging him right there on the foyer against the door.

“I’ve missed you.” Greg said in between kisses.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I overreacted. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.”

“It’s alright love. I forgive you. Now let’s go home. Didn’t sleep a wink last night with your brother screaming all night…”

“Why was he--”

“You don’t want to know.” Greg wiggled his eyebrows playfully while opening the passenger side for Mycroft.

On their way home, Greg drove with one hand held tight with Mycroft’s. Mycroft looked over and saw the DI’s face, and it confirmed that doubt weighing heavy in his coat pocket. It made him believe in fairy tales.

Because every fairy tale ends with Happily Ever After.


	6. Fireplace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut has arrived. Merry Christmas xx

John woke up to the muffled sound of Christmas music. He must have slept more than six hours. Turning to his left he saw the clock on Sherlock’s side of the bed indicating 12:23PM. They stayed up till six in the morning with Greg.

Sherlock must have been up for a long time. His side of the bed was cold and made. It was definitely a mess when they fell asleep that morning, John made sure of that. He rubbed his morning stubble and climbed out of bed reluctantly, body aching in different places.

 

He heard John using the loo. Sherlock kept his head low looking into the microscope, hoping to get this experiment done before John realises what he’s up to. The moment the chemicals started reacting, he grabbed the entire stack of petri dishes and laid them in the fireplace, covering it up with logs.

It was the perfect hiding spot since they’ve barely used it over the years. The flat came with central heating. There was really no point starting a fire.

 

John heard some dull thuds and things knocking about coming from the living room. He wondered what Sherlock was up to now. His curiosity was peaking, but the shower ultimately won. As he shampooed his hair, he heard the door to the bathroom open, then felt a pair of arms wrapped around his waist.

“Hmm, good morning love.” He said with his eyes closed. He felt that pair of hands maneuver him around to go under the spray, then massaging his head, washing the shampoo off.

“Good morning John. Looks like you slept well.” Sherlock said while holding John close. Close enough that their erections were brushing against each other.

“Very good, very good indeed.” John opened his eyes and met Sherlock’s. God, those beautiful eyes always made his knees buckle, but in this instance he went on his knees for something else.

John brushed his stubble along Sherlock’s inner thigh, tip of his nose lightly touching Sherlock hard length. He pushed Sherlock against the wall and went straight for the prize, swallowing it as far as he could in one go.

“John…” The walls of the bathroom echoed Sherlock’s moans.

John doubled his efforts and pulled long hard strokes with his lips, one hand holding onto the base of Sherlock’s cock where he couldn’t get, the other hand stroking his own length. He was close. Very, very close.

Taking a risk, he looked up and saw Sherlock’s hands covering his mouth. John gave Sherlock one last hard suck and stopped, mumbling “I want to hear you” with Sherlock’s cock heavy on his tongue.

The taller man looked down and relaxed his hands, gently placing them behind John’s head. “Please.” He whispered.

_ He did ask nicely _ , John thought. Hollowing out his mouth, he relaxed and took in everything Sherlock had, all the way down his throat and started to swallow. He could feel Sherlock’s muscles twitching, and a few seconds was all it took for Sherlock to come. John felt his cock pulsing in his mouth, and something hot trickling down his throat. As he pulled away, he tasted Sherlock, licking the tip of Sherlock’s cock where it was still dripping.

“Are you--” John paused to swallow again. His throat felt a little raw. He cleared his throat twice and stood up facing Sherlock to ask “are you alright?”

Sherlock nodded. He looked blissed out. They hugged each other with Sherlock against the wall until the water was turning cold.

A quick wash later, they found themselves with only a towel wrapped around their waist, snogging on the kitchen table.

“Is it me or it’s getting a little chilly out here?” John asked.

Sherlock pushed away, leaving John sitting on the table and went to check the temperature gauge.

“It’s broken.” Sherlock announced, fiddling with the piece of electronic on the wall. He felt John walk past him towards the living room and the train of thought made him panic.

John was going to start a fire.

“No!” Sherlock shouted, tackling John into his chair.

“It’s cold! Let me start the fire, alright?”

“No, you can’t.” Sherlock pinned John down, straddling the doctor’s lap.

“And why is that?” John raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock fidgeted, squirming around John’s half-hard cock. John had half a mind to not press the issue in the fireplace in favour of getting off, but he had to know what Sherlock did.

“Nope. You’re not getting any until you tell me what’s wrong with the fireplace.” John held Sherlock’s wrists, pinning it to the arm of the chair.

“Fine.” Sherlock struggled a little to get off. He bent over the fireplace and pulled out a tray of petri dishes from under the logs. John saw his name stuck on a piece of tape at the top corner, along with dates on the individual petri dishes.

“What are those? Are those my… oh god Sherlock. What the fuck are those?” John gasped and exclaimed every time he saw a different coloured patch. “Please don’t tell me those are my body fluids.”

“They are.” Sherlock said calmly as if there was nothing wrong with experimenting on John, but deep down inside he’s expecting John to get angry and storm away.

“What fluid, and how did you collect them?”

“What?” That surprised Sherlock. John had once again surprised him. He deduced the next question that comes from John would be “why?”.

“Well, if you’re going to experiment on me, I want to know that you’re getting uncontaminated data.” John wrapped himself behind Sherlock, kissing the detective’s naked shoulders. “So? What fluid are those?”

Sherlock was stunned. John wasn’t angry, and he wants to help?

“Semen.”

“Hmm, how did you collect the one from second December?”

“When…” Sherlock was furiously blushing thinking about it. Twas the following night they kissed under the mistletoe, his second night sleeping in John’s bed. According to John, that was the “most explosive handjob” he’s ever had.

“Looks like you’ve missed a few days in between.” John looked and counted the dates. “Want to get one more data point for today?”

Sherlock nodded. John turned him around and gave him a chaste kiss before going back to start a fire. He sat in Sherlock’s chair, waving for the detective. He loosened the towel around his waist, and pulled Sherlock’s off when he’s close enough. John pulled his lover down by his waist, Sherlock’s weight pinning him down, and started to nip at Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock flipped open the towel in between them, and held John’s hot hard length. He’s been hard since the shower. He worked his wrist around, jerking John off, twisting his hands at the head every few random strokes. John’s head slammed against the backrest, eyes half-opened, jaw relaxed and panting through his mouth.

“Sherl-- oh god, Sherlock. Harder.” John gasped and Sherlock did as he asked. He gripped tighter and focused on John’s perineum, knowing that it was the spot that made John see stars.

And John came with his eyes wide open, looking at the flickering fire reflected in Sherlock’s eyes.

“So beautiful. Your eyes, Sherlock. Gorgeous.” John sighed.

Sherlock smiled back at him, but still had his hand on John’s softening cock, gently rubbing it to squeeze every last drop of semen out. John realised what he was doing and chuckled.

“Go ahead. Put it on the petri dish then.”

Sherlock sprung out of his lap and ran to the kitchen. After he was done, he washed his hands and came back to the living room to find John asleep, next to the fireplace, blond hair shimmering like gold against the sunlight and fire. Quietly, he walked to John and sat on his lap, wrapping his arms around John’s torso. John, in his sleep, subconsciously wrapped his arms around Sherlock.

“Hmm, warm.” John mumbled in his sleep.

_ Warm indeed. _ Sherlock thought, eventually falling asleep in John’s arms in front of the fireplace.


	7. Wishlist

Over the years that John started writing about Sherlock on his blog, they had been receiving a ton of gifts from clients and fans all over the world. Since John came back to live at Baker Street post-Mary, he had an idea to publish a Christmas wishlist on his blog, so if anyone decided to send them a gift, it would be something useful.

“Sherlock! What would you need for your experiment in the next three to six months?” John yelled, knowing that Sherlock was doing an experiment planning in his bedroom. They had decided that it would be best for them to sleep in John’s, converting Sherlock’s into his experiments storage unit, keeping hazardous materials away from the kitchen.

Sherlock heard John, and wondered what it could be about. He threw the door open, stomping towards John.

“Why? What are you planning?”

“I’m putting up a wishlist. I have…” John did a quick count, “seventeen things on my list. Give me yours so people can send them over.”

He looked down at John’s laptop screen and saw the list of things John had typed out.

_ Microwave oven parts, or just another oven would be nice: _ _   
_ _ Cavity lamp _ _   
_ _ Magnetron antenna _ _   
_ _ H.T. Transformer _ _   
_ _ Mode stirrer _ _   
_ _ Wave guide retainers _ _   
_ _ Latch board _ _   
_ _ PCB Control Board _ _   
_ _ Wave guide _ _   
_ _ Wave guide cover _ _   
_ _ Exhaust air vent _ __   
  


_ Others: _ _   
_ _ Gun cleaning kit _ _   
_ _ Medical grade rubber gloves _ _   
_ _ Any fruit jam _ _   
_ _ Medical books _ _   
_ _ First aid kit _ _   
_ _ Rubber boots _ _   
_ _ Craft beer _ _   
_ __   
  


“Gun cleaning kit? Really, John. You want the whole world to know that you carry an illegal firearm?”

“Not illegal anymore. Mycroft sent me an early Christmas present last week.” John walked to his chair and pulled a folder from under his cushion. “Papers to own.” John couldn’t help but grin. “According to your brother, now that we are joined at the hip, literally, he needs me to be less susceptible to be arrested.”

“I need test tubes, petri dishes, and a perhaps a new condenser lens for my microscope.” Sherlock was filing away the fact that John now has the British Government’s permission to carry firearm, which could be really handy in this case that he’s looking at. “Also, honey.”

“Yeah?” John responded.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“You called me and didn’t say anything else? What do you need?” John looked up from the screen and stared at Sherlock.

The consulting detective looked confused for a moment, and realised that John thought it was an endearment. “I didn’t. I said honey. I want honey on that list, any variations. Did you…”

“Sorry, thought you were calling me honey.” Blushing, John looked back down on the laptop, hoping that it would hide his face.

“If you want to, honey,” Sherlock said, walking back towards John again, “I don’t mind calling you honey.” Sherlock stood behind John and hugged him.

John sighed, relieved that Sherlock understood. While Sherlock continued to hold him, he logged in to his blog and posted the wishlist.

Sherlock saw that John wrote something. Right before John clicks ‘Post Entry’, he looked back at Sherlock, silently asking for his approval. Sherlock nodded gently, pressing a kiss to the side of John’s neck, and the post was live.

 

> **7th December** **  
>  ** **Big Announcement/Christmas Wishlist**
> 
> Hello readers. Sorry we haven’t updated for some time. As most of you have previously suspected, assumed and deduced, yes, Sherlock and I are celebrating our first Christmas together as a couple! Exciting days ahead!
> 
> We’ve been receiving gifts from so many of you all across the world over the past years - thank you so much. Big hugs from both of us.
> 
> However, this year, if you still like us enough to send us gifts, please send us something from the list below. We are running out of space at the flat for knick knacks...
> 
> For John: Jam (any kind), gun cleaning kit, medical grade rubber gloves   
>  For Sherlock: Honey (any kind), petri dishes, test tubes, microscope condenser lens
> 
> Lots of love,   
>  John W. & Sherlock H.


	8. Pet(s)

Living with a Holmes was never meant to be easy, or convenient. It meant getting woken up when said Holmes slides into bed in the wee hours of the morning, when the alarm goes off two hours later.

Gregory Lestrade would be one of two men in the world to testify that.

He did not expect it all to be unicorn and roses when he moved in with Mycroft. He knew what he was getting into. In fact, there would be days when their roles were reversed - Mycroft would be asleep by eleven, only to be woken up by Greg snuggling up to him at three in the morning.

As months went by, they both have had conversations about cutting back working hours, citing both their age. They did not expect to live till 150, but one can dream.

Mycroft Holmes is a pragmatic man. He knew they only had forty, maximum fifty years left together, if they live till 100. Forty-five years living alone, shut off to the world in an icy facade, he has had enough. If giving up his control of the free world meant keeping Gregory to himself for the rest of his life, he’s ready to do it.

Lestrade, however, had other plans. ‘You only live once’ was one of those hippy sayings that Greg had picked up recently. Mycroft was not a big fan of it.

In August, Mycroft had started to cut back his working hours, delegating most of the minor decisions to Anthea. By November, he’s home cooking dinner every evening.

“Oh god, that is amazing. The things you can make with potatoes!” Greg exclaimed and shoved another spoonful of mash into his mouth.

“Anything with bacon would be amazing to you.” Mycroft said with a chuckle. He knew his DI loved bacon with everything, so why not mashed potatoes? “And I left the fats on the pan for the roast gravy. If I had known how much easier it would make cleaning the cast iron pan, I would’ve threw my diet out the window long ago.”

“Where’d you learn that?” Greg asked.

“Jamie Oliver. He was making a Christmas roast. I couldn’t find a topside so I replaced it with a ribeye…” Mycroft paused when he saw Gregory trying to swallow and laugh at the same time. “Careful now, don’t want you choking and spit on our dinner.”

“Oh…” Greg took a large swig of his beer to swallow whatever that was in his mouth, then started laughing heartily. “Oh love. You’re amazing. Who would’ve thought you will be running the world yesterday and following Jamie Oliver cooking a roast today?”

“Anthea is more than capable enough to take lead on most things. I’m only needed to attend meetings above her pay grade, which are far and few in between.” When Greg raised an eyebrow in disbelief, Mycroft added in a whisper, “and I was bored. Really bored.”

Greg stayed silent and only hummed an acknowledgement. He continued eating from his plate. When Mycroft realised that Greg wasn’t going to say anything, he changed the subject.

 

It was the eighth day of December when something other than Gregory had woken him up. The night before, Greg was sucked into a vortex of serial killings. Sherlock and John was on board, but it sucked the life out of them. It was so close to Christmas, and all the victims were family members from abroad. Mycroft dropped a hint to Sherlock about the case and they had it solved that morning.

Mycroft was expecting Greg to be home by midnight, but when the clock struck at one in the morning, he knew Greg wouldn’t be home until the morning.

And that morning, he felt something furry tickling his nose. He reached up to swat it away only to find his hand landing on a huge lump of fur. Opening his eyes in shock of the weird object, he saw… a cat.

“Morning love.” He heard Greg’s voice beside him. The pile of fur was obstructing his view. Lifting it away, he promptly sat up and placed the cat on his lap.

“Where’d you get this from?” Mycroft asked.

“One of the vic’s. He brought her back for his gran, but she had a heart attack when Donovan went to give her the news that he was murdered. They had no one else, neither does she.” Greg said pointing to the cat. “So I thought we could, perhaps, adopt it?”

“Adopt a cat, together?”

“Well, she’ll probably spend most of her time with you. I’m still serving my last two years before retirement.” Greg reached over and petted the cat. “And you won’t be so bored when there’s nothing happening in the world.” He cupped Mycroft’s face and gave him a kiss.

“Mmm.” Mycroft hummed in agreement to both Greg’s statement and the kiss. “You must have came back just an hour ago. Go back to sleep. I’ll-- we’ll be here when you wake up. We will have to name her together when your mind faculty is up and running.”

Greg nodded and released a big yawn, then tucking himself in, falling asleep within a minute. Mycroft kept his eyes on Greg’s face until it softened, then turning his attention to the black Siamese cat still curled up on his lap.

“What do we do now, Salem? Would you watch another episode of Jamie Oliver with me?”


	9. Foreign Language

While Greg was still asleep, Mycroft looked at the clock, realising there was another three hours before Jamie Oliver was on. He carried Salem (apparently the name of the cat had been decided) and placed her on the floor. He quietly left the bedroom and Salem trotted behind him. Arriving in his office, he sent a text to Anthea to deliver some cat essentials - bed, litter, some cat toys and food, of course.

“What should we do now?” Mycroft asked the cat, standing in front of his bookshelf. He was about to pick a book to read when Salem jumped on the grand piano in the corner of the room and struck a few notes.

“You like that?” Again he asked the cat, who meowed in response. “I suppose you do.”

He sat down and moved Salem onto his lap, thinking about what to play. He started by warming up with a few jazz sequence, but slowly moved onto Giant Steps, improvising the Coltrane changes over and over again as if it was Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.

As he simmered down, his floated some thoughts around. One of it was of his childhood, when he and Sherlock would settle an argument with music. It then moved onto his teenage years where they spent weeks before Christmas to prepare a surprise for their parents.

Moving along the chord progressions, he ended at the start of Silent Night. It had took Sherlock and Mycroft a week to learn all the languages, another two days to get the accents right.

He hummed along with the tune, after going through the song once, he started to sing.

_ Stille nag, heilige nag (Afrikaans) _ _   
_ _ vsičko spi sal edna (Bulgarian) _ _   
_ _ zhào zhe shèngmǔ yě zhào zhe shèngyīng (Chinese) _ _   
_ _ Cet enfant sur la paille endormi (French) _ _   
_ __ Maga, patuste rõõm, maga, patuste rõõm (Estonian)

_ Astro del ciel, Pargol divin, _ _   
_ _ mite Agnello Redentor (Italian) _

_ Lieb' aus deinem göttlichen Mund, _ _   
_ _ Da schlägt uns die rettende Stund, (German) _

_ Kristus till Jorden är kommen, _ _   
_ _ eder är Frälsaren född (Swedish) _

_ Tawel nos, Duw ei Hun _ _   
_ _ Ar y llawr gyda dyn _ _   
_ _ Cerddi'r engyl, a'r Ne'n trugarhau _ _   
_ _ Baban Duw gyda'r llygaid bach cau _ _   
_ __ Iesu, T'wysog ein hedd (Welsh)

_ Silent night, Holy night _ _   
_ _ All is calm, all is bright _ _   
_ _ Round yon virgin Mother and Child _ _   
_ _ Holy infant so tender and mild _ _   
_ _ Sleep in heavenly peace _ _   
_ __ Sleep in heavenly peace

 

Singing peacefully in his own bubble, Mycroft wasn’t aware that Greg had woken up from the sounds of music in the house. When Mycroft started playing Silent Night before the singing, Greg woke up wondering if it was the radio or Mycroft. He quietly stood by the door that was ajar when Mycroft started singing. As he moved from one language to another, Greg was smitten. He gently moved into the room and sat at the chair behind Mycroft.

When Mycroft finished in English, he petted Salem for a moment before getting up. He planned on picking a book and read in his chair, but when he turned around, he saw Greg fast asleep in it.

Greg had always been a light sleeper. When he heard shuffling around the room, he woke up with the cat in his lap, Mycroft on the other side of the room in front of the bookshelf.

“Hey Mycroft.” He called out. Carrying the cat with him, he went to Mycroft and hugged him with one arm, placing a kiss at the back of his neck. “That was amazing. You have a really good voice. And how many languages do you actually know?”

“I’ve lost count.” Mycroft finally picked a book, but made no move to retrieve it. The closeness of Greg made him shiver a little, and knowing his lover, they’ll probably kill a bit of time now. He turned around and grabbed Greg by the wrist, pulling them both to the sofa. Mycroft leaned across the entire length of the sofa and pulled Greg down to lean on him. “Sherlock and I, we both learned multiple languages when we were younger not because we were curious. The year Sherlock was born, our mother let it slip that she had fond memories of this particular song. At seven years old, I was determined to make my mother happy. When Sherlock turned five, that was when we both were at the peak of our musical inclinations. I bribed him to perform the song with me, but he made it a competition on who can perform it with the most languages, and it only counts if we mastered said language. Doesn’t count if we only know the lyrics.”

“And you won, I assume?”

“I let him win. I could do it in sixteen languages. I chose not to and ended up with nine. He had ten.”

“Your mother must be pleased.”

“Extremely. I ended up inheriting this piano because of it. Mother knew I let him win, and she asked me to do it in sixteen languages the next day when Sherlock was outside collecting manure for his experiment.”

“Hmm…” Greg hummed, stifling a yawn, “he must have been a handful.”

“He still is, dear Gregory.” Mycroft threaded his fingers through Greg’s hair, gently massaging his scalp. Not a minute later, Greg started snoring. “Sweet dreams love.” He placed a kiss on the top of his head and settled in with his phone streaming Jamie Oliver on mute.

_ Thank heavens for subtitles, _ Mycroft thought to himself, filing the pumpkin pie recipe away to try that evening.


	10. Hidden Talents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly invited Greg, Mycroft, John and Sherlock over for an early Christmas dinner, and she has a surprise announcement!

“Oh! You’re both early! Come in, I’m just resting the turkey now!” Molly greeted as she opened the door, leading Mycroft and Greg in.

“It smells lovely, Miss Hoop--” Mycroft paused when Greg shoved his shoulder, “I mean, Molly. Thank you for hosting dinner tonight.”

“Myc made pumpkin pie!” Greg followed Molly into the kitchen and offered to help. “He spent all afternoon trying to figure out what he missed on the crust. Actually it was just butter!”

Mycroft Holmes would have never allowed anyone to make fun of his mistakes, but being with Gregory softened him up. He brushed it aside, laughing along with Molly and Greg over the kitchen island.

“And I had a block of butter under my nose the entire time.” Mycroft added, which garnered more laughter.

“Since you’re pretty handy in the kitchen, wanna help me with the gravy, Mycroft?” Molly asked politely, and Mycroft went to work.

Greg was hovering around the resting turkey when the doorbell rang. “That must be John and Sherlock. I’ll go get the door.” He informed the other two and went out.

John and Sherlock brought four bottles of wine, one for each course. Everyone knew Sherlock was going to hide in a social setting, so there was no surprise when he sat in the corner of the living room, hiding in his mind palace.

Greg and John settled in nicely with a glass of whisky that Mycroft brought along, in front of the fireplace. They were chatting about the football score from last week and the case Sherlock had been working on when the doorbell went off again.

This time, Molly rushed out to get it.

“Anthea?” Greg couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw the woman walked in behind Molly.

“Oh, this is interesting.” Sherlock seemed to have been pretending all these while.

Mycroft switched off the gas hob, washed his hands and came out into the living room with the apron still on him. He can only stare. How did he miss the fact that his successor was dating a…  _ friend _ .

“Good evening Mister Holmes.” Anthea greeted, “I trust you have had a good evening so far?”

“You’re good. I’m surprised even Sherlock missed this reading you.”

“Well, I’ve learned from the best.”

“Then call me Mycroft while we’re here. I’m not your boss until that phone rings.” He said pointing to the red one in her hand. “I’ll go back to the gravy now.” He just turned around, but stopped in his path when John let out a loud whistle, followed by Greg whistling an octave higher. They both started whistling Bobby McFerrin’s Don’t Worry Be Happy.

When they were done, Anthea snorted and both her and Molly started laughing. Molly struggled, but eventually explained why that song cracks them up so bad.

“On our first date, it was like an operation. She made me walk an additional twenty minutes so I would throw off the cameras. She was worried about someone finding out.”

“Then this song came out at the cafe we were in. As if someone was trying to tell us not to worry too much about being seen together.” Anthea continued, pulling Molly into a hug.

It was a beautiful scene in that living room, until Sherlock started twitching, and exaggerated a shiver.

“And what is wrong now, brother mine?” Mycroft asked pointedly when he saw that Sherlock was getting uncomfortable with what was happening. “A little too much emotions, perhaps?”

“No. It’s… I couldn’t decide if I want to be more surprised about Molly and Anthea, or the fact that Greg and John whistled like they had been rehearsing for years.” Sherlock also couldn’t decide if he was jealous, or just plain surprised. Emotions, still a very difficult thing for Sherlock to grasp.

“Now that you’ve said it, neither do I.” Mycroft pointed out, then felt his knees going weak, eventually slumped next to Sherlock.

The look on both Holmes’ face were blank. They were trying to process data that had never surfaced before.

“Looks like I’ve got to save the gravy now.” Greg said and pulled the apron off Mycroft, kissing his forehead before heading to the kitchen.

“And it seems like our hidden talent broke them.” John added, “you think they’ll be back on time for dinner?” He asked Anthea.

“Of course. Either way I know exactly how to pull them out his Office,” she said pointing to Mycroft, “and his Mind Palace,” pointing to Sherlock.

“Ouff!” Greg feigned a pained look, “another hidden talent. But this one you gotta share with us, Ant!” He shouted from the kitchen. “We live with these idiots and sometimes they wander off for god knows how long.”

“For a price, Greg. Anything for a price.”


	11. Gift(s)

This could be the first of many dinners to come at Molly’s. When she first met Sherlock at Bart’s, she would have never thought of the scene in front of her. Greg standing at the head of the table, carving the turkey with practiced ease, Sherlock, Mycroft and Anthea engaged in a heated argument about cat grooming. Then there was John, Greg and herself, chatting idly about cooking for their other half.

With a happy sigh, Molly rested her chin on Anthea’s shoulder, “it all turned out perfect.”

“Indeed.” Anthea took a pause at listening to Mycroft’s explanation on why bathing cats twice a week is not good for them.

A loud clunk of silverware alerted everyone at the table that Greg was done, and they can start eating.

“Bon appetit!” Greg sat down and raised his glass, “to many more wonderful years of friendship.” Everyone chimed in with a ‘hear hear’, and started digging in.

After dessert, they all sat in front of the fireplace, cuddling up with their respective partner. Sherlock stood up mid-conversation and went to the door where the coat rack was. He pulled out a stack of envelopes and a small box. Sitting back down between John’s legs, he handed the box to Molly.

“Happy early Christmas Molly. John and I may not be around, so I thought I should do this now and get it over with.” He said and huffed, feigning annoyance.

“Oh come on. You were so excited wrapping that gift. Don’t act like it was a chore all along now.” John chided, “come on Mols, open it.”

Carefully, Molly peeled open the wrapper, revealing a jewellery box. Inside it was a bracelet with rose gold charms of… body parts. The moment it was revealed, the room bursted out in laughter and snorts.

“Only Sherlock would buy something like that!” Greg laughed.

“It’s beautiful.” Molly smiled, “put it on for me?” She asked Anthea, but before she could wrap it around Molly’s wrist, Sherlock stormed off.

“Shit. Was that too much?” Greg asked and both Mycroft and Anthea nodded.

“I’ll go talk to him.” Molly offered, which was actually the best person given the situation.

Molly found Sherlock sitting on the steps outside her front door. She quietly sat beside him, her hand still holding onto the bracelet.

“We weren’t laughing at you. You know that.” She wondered if it would be alright to touch Sherlock. Gently, she reached out and placed her hand on his knee, just there, present.

“Molly. You’ve been there for me since the very beginning, and I’ve never been appreciative of your friendship. You are the second best friend I have, and I only have John, you and Lestrade. I don’t… I despise being ridiculed for showing affection. And that, in there, was why I gave up on  _ caring _ a long time ago.”

“But you care now. You have us, always. It’s easier said than done, and I have not the first clue about how you feel, but I can tell you this - we are always with you, never against you. And we were laughing because this,” she held the bracelet out on her palm in front of Sherlock’s face, “may seem a little inappropriate to everyone else, but knowing you and I, we love our body parts, don’t we?” She smiled, and that made Sherlock feel better instantly.

He nodded in response and reached out to touch the bracelet. “We do. Can I put this on for you?”

“Of course!” She lifted her arm closer so he could get the hook into the eyelet. “Really, Sherlock. Thank you. It’s getting cold out here, wanna go back inside?” She kissed his cheek, stood up and gave him her hand to pull him up.

They walked back into Molly’s living room, Sherlock’s wrist held tight in Molly’s hand. When they got to the middle, she flung him towards John.

“Your present has arrived, John.” She said jokingly.

Sherlock threw himself against John and landed on his torso. “ _ Oofff! _ What a big present!” He played along with Molly, then turned his head to whisper low in Sherlock’s ear, “when do I get to unwrap my present?”

“It’s late. Case tomorrow. Early morning. Gotta go.” Sherlock jumped up, announcing that they were leaving, grabbed his coat and walked towards the front door. But he stopped suddenly when John was saying his goodbyes. Sherlock went back to the living room and handed Greg, Mycroft and Anthea an envelope.

“Oh, right. I think he’s lost for words now. Those are consulting vouchers. He wasn’t sure what to get, and was quite sure Molly was dating another detective. Seems like someone was wrong.” John said, patting Greg’s back.

“Let’s go. John, now.” Sherlock had trotted back to the front door, giving Molly one last smile before leaving.

 

"What was that?" Greg was confused. One second everyone was having a seemingly normal evening, then Sherlock just flipped and left.

"He was down to two words per sentence. Something John said... I really don't want to think about it." Mycroft changed his mind about explaining the situation when his train of thought started going down a dirty road.

"Two words. Doctor Watson does know how to turn his switches on huh?" Anthea added.

"Oh god, no." Mycroft moaned, trying to stop his mind from thinking about what John was about to do with his little brother.

“What’s Anthea going to do with a consulting voucher?” Greg tried to steer the conversation away from John and Sherlock.

“Trust me, she’s going to keep that for after she takes over me.” Mycroft answered gladly, and Anthea nodded.

“Oh yes. When he’s being a little pain in the arse, I’m going to put him on paperwork sorting duty with this voucher.”

Mycroft winked at Anthea, knowing exactly what she had in mind.


	12. Tradition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starting a new Christmas tradition at 221B Baker Street...
> 
> Perhaps only between John and Sherlock. Involving everyone else... bit not good.

The door to 221B slammed shut behind John. Sherlock literally ran up the stairs and into their bedroom once they had arrived. He knew what he whispered to Sherlock got him all hot and bothered. Smiling to himself, he shrugged off his jacket and threw it on his chair, going straight towards the closed bedroom door.

He tried to open it, but it was locked. Initially, he thought Sherlock was just being playful, but now he’s having second thoughts. _Sherlock doesn’t do playful_ , he thought to himself while knocking on the door.

“Sherlock. Open up.” He waited a little while, and when there was no response, he knocked a little harder, shaking the handle. “I’m breaking down the door if you don’t open up in the next one minute.”

47, 48, 49… and the lock clicked. John let out a breath in relief. He wasn’t going to break the door down anyway. It would’ve hurt his shoulder bad for the next couple of days.

“Sherlock?” He called out when he saw Sherlock wasn’t in the room. The bed was still made with crisp corners from that morning. He looked around - in the wardrobe, under the bed, in the bathroom. Nothing. Then he noticed the window of their bedroom was open.

“Shit!” John knew for a fact that they never leave the window open. It can only mean one thing - Sherlock climbed out! He ran towards the door, jumping down the steps.

As he got to the last few steps, a loud knock came from the door.

“Delivery for Doctor John Watson?”

It was Sherlock’s voice.

John slowed down and opened the door, finding Sherlock flushed, wrapped in his Belstaff… and blushing. What’s Sherlock pretending to be now? Was this for a case?

“Are you Doctor Watson?” Sherlock asked, and held out his palm with a scribbled ‘Delivery Order’. “Sign here please.” Sherlock pointed at a line on his palm with a pen.

John grabbed the pen, signed on Sherlock’s palm and raised an eyebrow, silently asking “what the hell is going on”.

Sherlock pushed John inside and closed the door, leaning close to John and whispered “delivering your gift.”

“Hmm, come on, _gift_. Upstairs, now.” John ordered.

Unsteadily, Sherlock walked up the stairs, still holding his Belstaff tight around himself. John followed right behind, and that was when he realised he could see Sherlock’s legs. Could he be…

John couldn’t finish that thought. He was already in their living room with Sherlock in front of him, motioning for him to unwrap his gift.

And John did.

Pulling the Belstaff off Sherlock, what he found was mouthwatering. Miles of skin and a ribbon tied around Sherlock’s waist. It seems to be attached to his pants, a futile effort hiding his erection.

“Oh Sherlock.” John moaned, his hands holding Sherlock’s hips, pulling the detective flush against himself. “Are we going to do this every year now? Could be a Christmas tradition between us.”

“Nope.” Sherlock retorted, popping his ‘p’. “It’ll be you next year. But for now, please. I can’t wait any longer for you to _unwrap your present._ ”

John reached down and cupped Sherlock’s cock, gently rubbing it above his pants. As Sherlock got louder, he used his other hand and pulled Sherlock head down, muffling his moans.

Sherlock was truly enjoying the closeness of John, the warmth radiating from the doctor made his mind blank. When John suddenly pulled away, Sherlock groaned in protest, but not for long. John bent low and lifted Sherlock from the ground, carrying him bridal-style into the bedroom, dropping Sherlock in the middle of a perfectly made bed.

Then someone’s phone rang.

And rang.

They both ignored it for the first two times in favour of sucking each other’s tongue, but the third ring jerked Sherlock away and out the bedroom in search of his phone.

It was the ringtone set to Mycroft’s emergency phone.

When Sherlock found his phone in his Belstaff, he had just missed the call. Two missed calls from Lestrade and one from Mycroft’s emergency phone.

“Something’s happened.” He tried to dial back but the phone was engaged.

“Stop.” John grabbed Sherlock’s phone before he hit dial again, “he’s probably trying to call you again.”

And he was. By now, both John and Sherlock’s erections had flagged. The panicked look on Sherlock’s face when the phone rang in his hand told John all he needed to know.

Sherlock was quiet while Mycroft spoke on the other side of the phone. With nothing to do but wait, John quickly went into the bedroom and brought clothes out for Sherlock. He was still standing there, stunned, when John came out. He swiftly pulled Sherlock’s ribbon-wrapped pants down and tapped his knees for them to lift.

This wasn’t the first time John had to dress one Sherlock Holmes in his Mind Palace. He doesn’t seem to realise, but his body reacts in sync with John’s touches.

When John got Sherlock fully dressed, Sherlock stood there for another four minutes before he blinked, once, twice, and groaned, tugging his hair, pacing around the kitchen.

John stood in the way of Sherlock and held him still. He grabbed Sherlock’s arms and gave it a little shake. “Talk to me love. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. Just deleted it. But I’m still annoyed. Very, very annoyed. I can’t seem to delete the emotions that came with the information.”

“Not a case then?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head.

“Not an emergency?”

Again, Sherlock shook his head.

“Then can we go back to starting our Christmas tradition?” John smiled coyly, looking up at Sherlock through his eyelashes.

Sherlock nodded again. He was moving to hug John when he noticed his movements were slightly restricted. Then realisation hit him. “When did I get dressed? I don’t remember doing that.”

“Because you didn’t, you git. I dressed you. Thought there was a case. But doesn’t matter because now I can unwrap my gift all over again.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed happily as he leaned down to kiss John, mumbling against John’s lips, “that you can do, honey.”


	13. Food/Cooking - Turkey/Cookies

“It’s just like Chemistry, Hudders-- Ow!” Sherlock squealed when Mrs Hudson slapped his forearm.

“It’s Mrs. Hudson or Mrs. H to you, young man. Watch your manners. Only Chatters get to call me Hudders now.” She scolded and gave Sherlock a few more slaps on his arm.

Sherlock was standing in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen after a few foiled attempts at roasting a turkey in his own kitchen. He had everything set properly, but somehow the last four turkeys he’s roasted came out dry or charred.

“The secret, Sherlock Holmes, is basting the turkey every thirty minutes.” She said while opening the oven door slightly and pouring the stock over the turkey.

“Ah, I see. And you don’t open the oven door completely.” He mumbled while scribbling down notes, along with a few drawings of the oven with the angle of the oven door.

Since the dinner at Molly’s, he had been a little envious of Mycroft’s cooking relationship with Lestrade. He wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, but he saw. The way Lestrade’s eyes lit up, absolutely smitten with Mycroft when he ate the pumpkin pie… and Sherlock would not admit it out loud, but it was delectable.

And Sherlock wanted to see that same look in John’s eyes.

The problem was Sherlock is a terrible cook. He can’t even get toast right, what more so a whole five kilogram turkey? He needed to maximize this one-time attempt at getting John to light up, and he needed to prepare something extravagant to make that happen.

“Are you paying attention? I’m not your cook, or your housekeeper!” Mrs. Hudson’s gentle shove at Sherlock broke him out of his reverie.

“I apologise.” He said curtly, and continued paying attention to Mrs. Hudson’s lesson on stuffings.

 

While Sherlock was learning how to roast a turkey, John was at the clinic. Not working, but browsing recipes for building a gingerbread house. At Molly’s, Anthea had let him in on a secret - Mycroft and Sherlock used to build their own when they were young, until Mycroft left for college. It was one of Mycroft’s favourite memory to remember Sherlock by, and one of four fond memories Sherlock had not deleted.

John spent close to half his working time browsing, to the point where he didn’t realise the nurse had been buzzing his intercom. Only when she knocked on his door, he jumped, startled and rattled out a shaky “come in”.

“Doctor Watson, you haven’t seen anyone in four hours. Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, yeah fine. Just… send someone in, will you?”

The nurse nodded. “Sorry to bother you… whatever you were doing. We’re getting a little backed up out there.”

“No. Absolutely not. It was my fault, I’m sorry.” John was feeling a little guilty. When the nurse was leaving, he added haphazardly, “don’t tell Sarah about this, will you?”

She smiled and gave him a wink. “Of course… I will tell her about this.”

_ Shit. I’ll probably get an earful later.  _ John thought.

 

Later that evening after his shift, John met Greg at the pub near Scotland Yard for a pint. They were speculating that night’s football score when John suddenly had the thought to ask Greg about the gingerbread house.

“Yeah, we built one last year. Mycroft was over the moon! If you want notes on how to make it exactly the way they did it when they were kids, just ask Mrs. Hudson. Apparently she knew Mrs. Holmes from way back in a ‘book club’.” Greg said, and John heard the inverted commas.

“ _ Book club _ huh? Could you ask if I can give her a call tomorrow?”

“Yeah sure. In fact, let me do that now before we get pissed.” Greg hopped off the bar stool and went outside to call Mrs. Holmes.

 

The next morning, John’s mobile received a long text with instructions and recipes for the gingerbread house. But it wasn’t John who saw it, Sherlock did.

John was brushing his teeth when his mobile buzzed on the table, and Sherlock peeked. The number was all too familiar.  _ What is Mother doing texting John so early in the morning? How did they get in touch… Mycroft! _

“JOHN!” Sherlock shouted. John came out of the bathroom with his mouth still foamed, wondering what had happened so early in the morning for Sherlock to be shouting.

“What is my mother doing texting you? Who gave you her number? Was it Mycroft? What is he planning now? Why does he keep meddling with my life?!” Sherlock grumbled and flopped onto the sofa, still trying to break into John’s phone.

John had known better than to set his phone with a regular password. He was getting better at it. The last three times, Sherlock had been taking longer and longer to break in.

“Sherlock. My password is your birthday.”

Sherlock let out a huff. “Of course. You are as sentimental as they come.” When the screen unlocked, he saw his mother’s message about the gingerbread house, and a second text that said “Take good care of him. This is my ‘hurt my son and you will disappear’ message. I will not repeat this a second time.”

“Who was it?” John asked, still unaware of what Sherlock saw.

Sherlock flipped the phone over and shoved it in John’s face. It took him a second to register the contents, but when he did, all he wanted to do was hold Sherlock. And he did.

“Thank you honey.” Sherlock was contemplating whether to tell John about the turkey, but he thought twice. The reward he might get when he presents a perfect albeit normal Christmas dinner should make this even.

“You’re most welcome love.” John mumbled into Sherlock’s hair, comfortably snuggled on top of Sherlock. He scooted a little lower to reach Sherlock’s lips. The way Sherlock parted his, impatiently shoving his tongue into John’s mouth and tasting the inside of his lips, was heavenly.

They stopped when John heard someone coming up the stairs. From the sound of it, Sherlock knew it was Mrs. Hudson coming up to…

_ Oh no. The turkey! _

The panicked look on Sherlock’s face made John laugh. Before Mrs. Hudson got to their door, John heaved himself off Sherlock and walked back towards the bedroom. On second thought, he threw his head back over his good shoulder, grinning at Sherlock.

“That turkey better be good!” John yelled to the living room and quickly shut the door behind him, getting dressed for work.


	14. Interrogation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was that emergency call from Chapter 12?

It had been a long day. Greg had just arrested a man accused of raping and murdering teenagers. Compiling the transcripts for evidence had been terrible, especially when the online conversations went from ‘how are you doing?’ to sexually explicit content within minutes. Provocative wasn’t a strong enough word for what had went on, apparently for years.

Sherlock had came across this man when one of the homeless girls disappeared from his network. The detective went on a search with John, only to stumble across this man. Four text message and a call from John later, they were at the Yard, preparing to charge the man with multiple counts of murder, rape and lewd acts against a minor.

The last thing Greg needed was to go through the interrogation process. He was preparing the recording equipment in the observation room of the interview room when the door to the other room opened. John was walking backwards into the room with Sherlock pushing him in.

“Sherl--” John’s complaints were muffled when Sherlock kissed him hard, “--no we can’t _mmpphhhh!_ ” And again, Sherlock’s mouth covered John’s when he starts to complain.

In the other room, Greg was stunned. When he finally could close his jaw, he was hoping that John would snap out of it and be the responsible one like always. Unfortunately for Greg, John caved into Sherlock’s advances. He let Sherlock push him down on the chair, then the detective straddles John, grinding his hips in sharp movements, making John moan… really loudly.

Greg had enough and snapped. He knocked on the one way glass and switched on the microphone.

“Lads, come on! You know better than to do that here?! Get out of there. Now!” Greg switched off all the equipment and went to the other door, swinging it wide open.

“For fucks sake! You didn’t even lock the door?” Greg whispered sternly. John looked really embarrassed, but Sherlock on the other hand, looked smug as hell.

When Sherlock pulled John out the door, walking past Greg, he grinned slyly and stopped. “Revenge is sweet, Gregory.” He said and moved away, tugging John along.

Greg stood by the door for a long moment, trying to figure out what Sherlock meant when he heard another door slam shut, followed by John’s muffled shouting.

What really happened was John, who had no idea why Sherlock said that to Greg, asked the detective what he meant. When Sherlock had a guilty look on his face, John flipped. He suspected that Sherlock knew Greg was in the other room, but that face confirmed it. He shoved Sherlock into the next open interrogation room, pushed Sherlock to sit on one side of the table, then pulling handcuffs from Sherlock’s Belstaff pocket and cuffed Sherlock to the table.

“John!”

“No. Shut up! What did I say… did YOU promise me in Dartmoor? Hmm? Did you forget all that already?” John shouted. He was angry, furiously pacing back and forth across the table from Sherlock.

“John…” Sherlock whined.

“No. I don’t want to listen to your excuses. You knew Greg was in the other room. And what was that about revenge? Hmm? You manipulated me, putting on a show for Greg… as revenge? What do you think this is?” John pointed at the space between them, referring to their relationship, “is this all just a game to you?”

Sherlock knew he had crossed the line, again. He came clean and told John what it was about.

“That emergency call two days ago, from Mycroft. I couldn’t delete it.”

“But you said you did.”

“I thought I did. I was still processing the emotions around it. I just dumped that piece of information into a storage room and put a red tape on top of it. I didn’t get a chance to put a note on top. This morning when I was doing some _spring cleaning_ , I found it and had to know what it was… then I relived that conversation, John.”

“And what was it?” John asked when Sherlock stopped talking, and looked like he was about to hyperventilate. John quickly uncuffed Sherlock and knelt in front of the detective, gently rubbing his wrists in soothing circles. “Hey, relax. Sorry I yelled at you, but what you did was really more than bit not good.”

“It was… They were leaving Molly’s…” Sherlock paused and shivered, “it was a _butt-dial._ They were… ‘getting it on’ as idiots would call it, at the back of Mycroft’s car.”

“Oh god!” John exclaimed then stood up to hug Sherlock, pulling the taller man’s face into his chest. He kissed the top of Sherlock’s head, whispering sweet nothings into those unruly curls.

“I just can’t deal with it, John. I needed an outlet. I’m sorry, so sorry for manipulating you.”

“Apology accepted, and I forgive you.” John held Sherlock’s face and leaned down, kissing the detective, wiping tears away from his cheeks, then leaned really close to his ear, whispering “shall we plan your revenge then?”

The smile on Sherlock’s face made John’s heart flutter. Sherlock nodded enthusiastically, then cuffed himself back on the table.

“Are you going to interrogate me at all, Captain Watson?” Sherlock had put on his haughtiest look and voice, goading John to _do something about it_.

“Oh, you’re in for a very,” John took one step closer, “very,” he leaned down, just centimeters away from Sherlock’s face, “very hard _ride._ ”

 

In the other room, Greg knew there was nothing he could do when he saw Sherlock cuff himself back on the table. This time, John did lock the door. All he could do was to switch everything off and leave.

Leaving John to interrogate Sherlock, whatever that meant...


	15. Fairy Lights & Glowing Glitter Balls

Sherlock was not the playful kind, nor romantic, but for John he has been trying. A little too hard, sometimes.

After the case of the child murderer was closed, they stumbled back home, exhausted on their feet. While John opted to sleep, Sherlock needed to spend some time filing information away. What John did not know was what information. While John thought he was organising information from the case, Sherlock was actually analysing their conversation on the way home.

_ “Look out there Sherlock. All bright and glittery. I’ve never told anyone this before, but we never had much of those at home. My mum, of all things, was allergic to glitter. All we had was a tree with paper balls and fairy lights.” John turned over and stared at Sherlock for a moment. Sherlock chose to pretend to be uninterested. John snorted and chuckled to himself, “of course you’re not interested in things like that about my past. Not thrilling enough, I guess.” _

_ Sherlock continued to pretend that he was in his mind palace. _

Once they got home though, Sherlock was feeling little by little more guilty the more he thought about it. That statement that John had made in the cab - how much did Sherlock miss from ignoring John’s idle chats about his past? It made Sherlock want to throw up.

But he was determined to make things right. He placed a note at the main door of his mind palace to pay attention to John, even when it seems like he’s grumbling about nothing.

Two hours into John’s nap, Sherlock started pulling things out of his old room. There was a box, somewhere, with Christmas decorations, left behind by John and Mrs Hudson before he went AWOL. Until today, he refuses to call it his ‘suicide’, even though everyone else refers to it that way.

He was hanging up the lights over the fireplace when he realised that he wasn’t tall enough to get it to the top of the mirror. He turned around to look at the living room, trying to figure out which piece of furniture would be the most suitable - all while still holding the lights in his hand. He ended up spinning in place fourteen turns. Only when he tried to move towards the windows for the desk chair, he realised he’s tangled up in fairy lights, lit.

Then there was the glitter baubles hanging on it in between every ten light bulbs. There were two, coincidentally, hanging in front right under his crotch.

“Are those glowing glitter balls, or are you just happy to see me?” John said leaning on the door. He woke up alone and was worried about the silence downstairs. But coming down and seeing Sherlock tangled up in Christmas decorations was the last thing he expected to see.

Sherlock stood there, still tangled up, barely breathing. He was embarrassed to have John seeing him like this. He didn’t make any comments, just staring at John, silently pleading John to drop it and help him get out of it.

“I see Santa’s decided to give me another early Christmas present?” John chuckled and knelt in front of Sherlock, untangling the lights closest to his feet. “You should’ve woke me up.”

“I wanted to surprise you…” Sherlock paused, looking down to meet John’s eyes. He felt really awkward with what he wanted to say next, and ended up blurting it out in a muffled sentence. “I wanted to show you that I cared… about your… past. Everything.”

“Oh sweetheart. Of course I know you care.” John had already pulled the fairy lights off Sherlock, throwing them to the side and stood up to cup Sherlock’s face. With every word, he gave Sherlock a kiss around his face, “that - was - very - sweet - of - you. Now let’s get you out of these smelly clothes, a bath and we can put those up together?”

Sherlock nodded, letting himself be pulled into the bathroom. Carefully he stripped himself bare, making sure the glitter did not scatter all over the floor. While he did that, John was turning on the water and filling the tub. When Sherlock went to step in, John was already in it, leaning on one end and stretched out.

He held out his hand to help Sherlock in, and parted his legs a little for Sherlock to fit in between them. He was a little turned on, but still too tired from the case last night to do anything.

“If someone had told me when I was younger, that a gorgeous  _ mop-head _ brunet would be cuddling with me in the bath after trying to hang up Christmas decorations to surprise me, I would’ve told them to see a shrink.”

“I don’t understand, John. Why would they need to see a psychiatrist?”

“Because they would be crazy to think that.”

“But we’re here now… hang on, you were referring to me as…  _ mop-head _ ?”

“Yes love.” John raised a hand out of the water to ruffle Sherlock’s curls, covered in glitter, “but you’re my glitter covered  _ mop-head _ .”

And Sherlock agreed silently. Not to the part of being a  _ mop-head _ , but John’s.

Always John’s.


	16. Ugly Sweater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is 2400 words of smut and fluff to celebrate reaching the halfway mark! If you skip this, you'll miss nothing except the reason why Sherlock is wearing an ugly sweater.

“Wake up sleepyhead.” John mumbled, water swaying from him shifting. “My lower back’s numb.”

Sherlock grumbles quietly, but opened his eyes and saw that he was still naked in the tub. The water has gone cold, and his fingers were pruned. It took a lot of effort to heave himself up and out. He grabbed the nearest towel and held it out for John, then wrapped himself in another one. His mind was blank. It had been awhile since he slept into the REM phase.

John took the towel, wrapping it around his waist, then silently tugged Sherlock upstairs into their bedroom. He didn’t bother drying Sherlock’s hair, neither did the detective himself. They fell into bed together, pulling the duvet over their naked bodies. John was about to fall asleep on his back when he felt Sherlock stir, followed by an arm and a leg on top of him. He pulled himself closer to Sherlock, and fell asleep with his face buried in Sherlock’s wet curls.

Waking up to a face full of hair wasn’t something John liked, at all. But this was Sherlock’s hair. Hair that smelled like home, comfort and the expensive hair product that he used all the time.

He likes it. Loves it.

But what he loved more was the feeling of Sherlock’s skin against his. They were sweating through the night, and parts of their bodies felt like it was stuck together with glue. Instead of feeling disgusted, he cherished it. The best part was feeling Sherlock’s knee grinding against his morning erection. That itself made John realise Sherlock had been awake for some time.

John moaned in his throat lowly when Sherlock switched from his knee to his thigh, trapping John’s erection against the softest part of his inner thigh against John’s stomach. Sherlock was also hard, bucking his hips and rubbing himself on John’s hip.

“Sherlock,” John gasped when Sherlock changed his angle slightly, “come here.” He pulled Sherlock on top of him.

The taller man threw the duvet open and laid on top of John. Now their cocks were stacked together. Every little movement Sherlock made sent shivers down John’s spine.

“I want you John.” His eyes were gleaming in the morning sunlight.

“Me too, love. Me too.” John was running out of breath. He was getting too close with Sherlock gyrating his hips above. “Stop. Too close!” But it was too late. Sherlock didn’t stop and John spent himself between their stomachs, covering Sherlock’s red leaking cock with his semen.

John apologised, wanting to take Sherlock in his hand, or mouth, but the detective slapped his hand away and leaned down, using a finger to collect John’s cum. On Sherlock’s side table, there was a petri dish… then John wasn’t feeling as bad anymore.

But Sherlock wasn’t done. He went back down and licked John’s stomach where he came, and went lower until he was between John’s arse cheeks. He hooked his arms under John’s knees, then looked up, asking John for permission with his eyes.

John nodded, and Sherlock pushed John’s knees up as far as it could go, greedily licking at John’s hole. He wasn’t good with intimacy, but sex was nothing new to him. It used to be a way to curb his hormones, or a transaction, but this was new. This will not be fast and hard like it used to be.

He slowed down when he heard John panting and moaning, his spent cock seemed to be interested once again. Sherlock nuzzled John’s balls with his nose, and gave it a tentative lick. John held the bedsheet in his hands tighter. And Sherlock did that again, this time with a little more pressure, randomly taking one into his mouth and swirled his tongue around it.

“God, Sherlock. Please.” John moaned hoarsely, one hand releasing the bedsheet in favour of Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock felt that tug on his hair, and John seemed to be pushing him down. He pulled away and grabbed John’s hip, flipping the doctor over. His doctor seemed to know what’s next as he raised his hips on his knees and let them part as far as he could. Sherlock was feeling something he had never felt before as he grabbed the bottle of lube from John’s drawer and pouring it on his hand. He slicked up his fingers and as it warmed up, he touched John’s rim, just drawing circles, waiting for the muscles to relax.

John clenched up when he felt Sherlock’s finger touching his hole. He has never been penetrated before. The anxiety was killing him, but the thrill, the anticipation of having Sherlock fuck him slowly eased the tension. Then he felt the finger breach him. He knew it was just Sherlock’s index finger, but fuck, it felt so hot and full. The finger wriggled around a little, making circles up his arse.

Pulling his index finger out, Sherlock poured more lube and covered his index and middle finger. He gently probed John with his middle finger. When it was all the way in, he wriggled it around again, spreading lube inside and looking for John’s prostate. Sherlock pulled and pushed his fingers a few times with a slight hook, and when John screamed, he knew he had found the spot.

John was looking back at him with his face down on the side. His cock was red and leaking. Sherlock wasn’t very far behind either. It took him everything he had to not touch himself then and there.

“One more, Sherlock. Hurry up.” John panted.

Sherlock obeyed. With his middle finger still inside, he slowly pushed in his index finger. The way John’s hole stretched and wrapped around them was a sight to behold. Sherlock fucked John slowly, brushing past John’s prostate every other thrust in with his fingers.

He moaned into the pillow under his face, holding on to the bedsheets with his dear life. It was just Sherlock’s fingers, but he felt like he was about to come from being fucked like that. He wanted more. He wanted to feel Sherlock inside him.

“Take me now. I’m so close love.”

“John…” Sherlock pulled his fingers out slowly, hand still covered in lube. He slicked up his cock and poured a little extra onto John’s hole. Some of it gathered there and seeped into John. It was slightly dilated, and John was obviously relaxed. He let the head of his cock slip inside, and both of them felt the muscles catch onto it, sucking Sherlock’s cock in.

Slowly, Sherlock pushed in little by little until he was fully seated. John felt like he was going to explode. It was a little uncomfortable, but when Sherlock gave it a slight thrust, he saw stars in his eyes. John wasn’t aware that he was drooling onto the pillow, gasping, whining and moaning loudly.

That only spurred Sherlock on. He leaned down against John’s back and pulled out almost all the way, and thrust back into John, hard. It shook the bed. John was moaning his name in bits and pieces, eyes screwed shut and his hips pushing back with Sherlock’s every thrust forward, meeting him in the middle.

“More, Sherl-- _oh god --_ Sherlock!” That was it. Sherlock had found the perfect angle. He shifted his knees a little to the left and pounded furiously. Every thrust was hard and fast, prodding at John’s prostate. He moved one hand away from John’s hip and down, wrapping his hand around John’s leaking cock. The bed sheets were definitely stained, and the hot length in his hand was throbbing with John’s every heartbeat.

Sherlock made it difficult for John to hold on. The moment he felt Sherlock’s fingers wrapped around his cock, he only teetered around the edge for a few seconds, then he came with Sherlock still pounding against his prostate. His orgasm was stretched long and thin, almost snapping him into half. His body was shaking as Sherlock kept his spent cock wrapped in those long violinist fingers.

“Almost there. I felt that-- _ohhhh!_ ” Sherlock came when John clenched his hole around his cock buried deep. “Oh John!” He shouted John’s name over and over as he rode out his orgasm.

John felt it when Sherlock came. It was like a rush of hot liquid blooming inside his arse. His knees gave and both of them collapsed, Sherlock cock still lodged deep inside him, full body weight on top of him. When Sherlock pulled out, he tried to clench his hole, not wanting to let it leak all over the bed, but Sherlock had other plans. He felt Sherlock lift himself off, and those hands of his on his arse cheeks, spreading it open. Then a finger slipped into his dilated hole, causing John’s muscles to relax and Sherlock’s cum leaking out. But Sherlock’s finger stayed there, going deeper every thrust, expertly avoiding his prostate.

It was a few minutes of catching their breath while Sherlock kept fingering John’s hole. When John was wary of his situation - the drool drying on his face, at the corner of his mouth, his semen sticking his stomach to the bed sheet, Sherlock’s cum leaking out and drying around his balls.

“Sherlock. Come here.”

He felt Sherlock’s finger slip out completely, and the detective climbed up to lie beside John, face to face. John pulled Sherlock’s face close and kissed him, long and sweet. “That was amazing.” He said and gave Sherlock a kiss on his forehead, fingers carding through those black curls.

“It was. I’ve never felt that need, that urge to please before.” Sherlock felt vulnerable, unsure of what exactly he was feeling.

“Mmm… and I’ve never felt anything up my arse before.” John jokingly added.

“Thank you, honey.” _For letting me do this, for letting me have you, for loving me._ Sherlock silently added.

And John heard Sherlock’s thoughts through his eyes. “I’m always yours to have. I love you too Sherlock, very much.” John petted Sherlock’s hair for another minute, and started to pull away, “as much as I love cuddling with you, I’d rather not do it with semen all over me.”

Sherlock nodded and rolled off the bed, standing next to it. He pushed John towards the small en-suite upstairs, “go shower. I’ll change the sheets.”

Before John could ask ‘why not join me in the shower’, he saw how Sherlock was fixated at the stained spot where John came the second time. “That’s contaminated, Sherlock. I’ll give you another one tomorrow.” He commented with a chuckle.

Sherlock knew it was contaminated, but he needed a sample of John’s semen when it was ejaculated along with prostate stimulation… “Tomorrow? Why not tonight John?” He asked in late realisation after John had entered the shower.

“I’ve already came twice today love. I don’t think I can manage one more. Besides, we have to go down to the Yard for yesterday’s case. We haven’t recorded our statement yet.” John was already coming out of the shower after three minutes. Sherlock was putting on the fresh sheets when John came out.

John opened the cupboard and pulled out two sweaters. “Which one should I wear?” He asked Sherlock. The detective whipped his head around, staring at John’s ugly sweaters while tucking in the last corner of the sheets.

“They are both horrifying. But I suppose the one on the right is the better of two evil.”

“Alright. Then you get this one.” John pulled the left sweater out and threw it towards Sherlock.

“But… why? I have clothes! I’m not wearing one of your ugly sweaters!”

“No you don’t. We haven’t done laundry since last week. You’re out of clean clothes love.”

“No I’m not out. I can’t be!” Sherlock grabbed John’s towel from the floor and wrapped it around his waist before running down to his old bedroom. He pulled the door to his wardrobe and found nothing. There were no clean clothes… “How is this possible!” He shouted and ran back upstairs.

“Here.” John motioned to the bed when Sherlock came running back up, shouting about how it wasn’t possible. “You can wear my old shirt and this sweater. My pants would be a little too short for you, but I’m sure this one,” he pulled out a pair of trousers from the back of his wardrobe, “should still fit you.”

It was one of Sherlock’s old trousers with dull patches of bleach stains, and a patched spot where there was a bullet hole before. “Where did you get this?” Sherlock asked, and knew better to refuse wearing them.

“I kept it and patched it up. Tried to redye the stains but they were too far gone. I knew this was going to come in handy someday.” He pulled on his own sweater and bent down to kiss Sherlock where he sat putting his shoes on.

“I want to reiterate that I am very, very against this monstrosity that you call a sweater.” Sherlock grumbled waving the sweater in John’s face. “But… your thoughtfulness is much appreciated.” He said while putting on the sweater, hoping that it would cover his face long enough to let the blush dissipate.

“Oh you lovely man. You look spectacular in that sweater. No one is going to notice it.” John hugged Sherlock, feeling the soft wool on his face.

“Really, John? Even the blind could see this,” Sherlock pointed at his chest where Rudolph’s red nose stuck out in a ball of knitted wool, “from space.”

John ignored Sherlock’s complaint. He could tell Sherlock was secretly pleased to wear it for him.

“Thank you for wearing that monstrosity of a sweater for me love.”

Sherlock knew John saw through his act, and decided to let go, letting his emotions take over this once.

“And let’s not make a habit out of this.” Sherlock’s face softened, leaving their bedroom and headed down.

“The sweater, or sentiment?” John asked when they stood at the pavement outside waiting for a cab.

Sherlock made no comment about it then. When a cab stopped for them, they hopped on and Sherlock held John’s hand in his the whole ride. It was obvious to John that it bothered Sherlock, to process all these sentiments and emotions.

But deep down, Sherlock had already decided that the answer was only sweater, specifically to ugly horrendous-looking sweaters.

He would learn to embrace sentiment, for John.

 

 

**Sherlock's sweater**   


 

 

**John's sweater**   



	17. Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes Anthea's superpower - pulling Mycroft Holmes out of his Mind Office.

It all started and ended in Baker Street. The fight that shook London, almost collapsing governments at the whim of one Mycroft Holmes. Greg has been picking up movie quotes recently, and often refers to Mycroft as Uncle Ben, reminding the ‘minor’ government official that  _ ‘with great power comes great responsibility’ _ .

But who is Greg to tell Mycroft what to do? If he was being responsible or not? The fact that Greg thinks he could manipulate Mycroft into doing something was laughable… or frustrating when said person is your other half.

He could be Mycroft the government official and brush Greg off, or be Greg’s ‘pumpkin pie’ and persuade the DI to drop it. Till today, it could have been the worst mistake he’s made choosing the first.

Mycroft worries about Sherlock, constantly. The way their brain works wasn’t something regular people could grasp. It may seem like they have a rivalry between them, but somewhere deep in their respective ‘office’ and ‘mind palace’, there is a room filled with fond memories of each other.

The way Mycroft worries about Gregory Lestrade, though, was sometimes excessive. Anthea had been in the majority of Greg’s monitoring and surveillance. While it was necessary in the beginning when Sherlock had just started working with Greg, it had been years since Sherlock had Doctor Watson, and Greg was living with Mycroft. Unfortunately her boss didn’t think that was enough.

Then we fast forward to the day it all almost went to hell. Greg was just dropping off a case at Baker Street when Sherlock was out. He and John ended up drinking too much, and both took a nap on the sofa together. Fortunately, Sherlock was the one who walked in on them. Unfortunately, Sherlock doesn’t understand social cues and had to irate Mycroft at every chance he got.

Greg was painfully aware that Mycroft was mad - it was exactly what he wanted to happen. He did have a plan that did not involve John, but this practically fell onto his lap! He was going to milk the most out of this situation. Mycroft hadn’t been home for awhile, and what he needed was some dirty fight and make up sex.

Mycroft was mad, yes, but he was also aware that Greg… HIS Gregory, was trying to rile him up. He would not fall for it, no. With practised ease, he puts on his Iceman mask and promptly brushed Greg off, telling him that he can do whatever he pleases.

_ Oh _ , and that went really, really bad. Greg wanted Mycroft to get mad, yell, shout, maybe even land a few slaps. A cold hard facade was not what he expected. He really believed that Mycroft had dropped that habit with him.

The fight started with five words from Mycroft.

“What are you doing here?” It was sharp, full of accusations.

Greg was still groggy from his nap, and the effects of alcohol hasn’t dissipated fully yet. He realised a little too late what Mycroft’s tone included. They fight, about everything, even with John and Sherlock in the room. The actual residents of 221B Baker Street decided to leave when Mycroft started screaming.

“It’s not going to be pleasant, John. Let’s just… go. Anywhere.” Sherlock was already putting on his Belstaff with John’s jacket in his other hand. When he came back, he really wasn’t expecting Mycroft to make a big fuss about that nap right there in his living room.

One thing after another they fought about. Eventually, it became everything that Mycroft is. The surveillance, the spies, bodyguards, hidden cameras at the Yard.

“That, Detective Inspector, is exactly who I am.” The way Mycroft spat out his title made Greg realise what Mycroft was doing. Pushing him away. Depersonalising him. “Perhaps we should go back to keeping our relationship strictly professional.” He said in a statement.

Wasn’t a question.

“No. Mycroft Holmes. You listen to me. I just want you to stop treating me like a child, chastising me every time I make a mistake! And you overreact to everything! I don’t want to have a ‘strictly professional relationship’. I want to spend my life with you! How difficult was it to understand that?”

But Mycroft couldn’t hear it. He was already locked up in his Office, curling in the corner. The sorrow he felt manifested as thunder and lighting outside his window - there was no window before Greg came along, and now he wished that there wasn’t a floor-to-ceiling one. Everything outside was dark. The ceiling in his Office shook from the lighting striking the ground nearby. There was absolute chaos with nowhere to run. He can only hide.

 

“Anthea. I’ve done it. I’ve fucked it all up. He’s in his Office and wouldn’t come out.” Greg cried into the phone where he dialled Anthea. Mycroft just stood there, face blank, eyes dilated. “Yeah, please. Hurry up.”

Anthea arrived a little under five minutes. She was obviously nearby in case something like this happened.

“I’m going to show you how to do this once.” She said, then moving to remove Mycroft’s suit jacket, revealing his waistcoat. “See this fastener behind his waistcoat?” She motioned to the small of his back, and released the fastener, “Mister Holmes is quite particular with the fit. He’ll come around in about three minutes. Put the jacket back on him before he does.” She said, and quickly left.

And Mycroft does. He was feeling a little uncomfortable around his waist when he came out of his office, then reached behind to pull the fastener back on tight. At the same time, Greg was hugging him close, his face buried in the crook of Mycroft’s neck.

“I didn’t mean to. All that… surveillance stuff. If you want to, we can have as many cameras as you want. I just don’t want it to become an obsession of yours and… eventually, you might realise I had always been a… task… just someone in a file. I’m afraid you’ll think that one day.” Greg murmured into Mycroft’s skin, his arms still wound tight around Mycroft’s torso.

“You’re not a task Gregory. Never.” Mycroft thought about this very thoroughly, and knew with every cell in his brain that it was the right time. “Did you know I installed a floor-to-ceiling window in my underground office? I did that so I can see you running outside my window all the time.”

Greg looked up utterly confused, then a spark of genius came to him. “Oh! You meant the Office in your head.”

Mycroft nodded. He pulled himself closer to Greg, and felt something in his inner jacket pocket… the box.

“Anthea…” He whispered, and Greg heard.

“Yeah, she came by.”

Mycroft took a deep breath, and pulled away from Greg completely. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the box, then got onto one knee in front of Greg.

“Gregory Lestrade. I’d like you to marry me.”

“That wasn’t even a question.” Greg crossed his arms, surprised and annoyed at the same time.

“I know. I wasn’t going to give you a choice.” Mycroft teased.

“And there’s the pumpkin pie I love.” Greg smiled and pulled Mycroft to stand again, kissing Mycroft with his hands wrapped around Mycroft’s. 

“And yes, I will marry you.”


	18. Ribbon / Wrapping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When wrapping gifts took a naughty turn.

John Watson can disarm a man in a split of a second, disassemble and reassemble a rifle under 90 seconds, and knows how to turn Sherlock on or off with just the tips of his fingers. For a man with such talented motor skills, it was surprising to Sherlock how terrible he was with gift wrapping.

A case took them out of London for two days. When they arrived home on the third, John noticed the date. It was the 18th, and they were less than a week away from Christmas Eve. John, on behalf of both him and Sherlock, had promised Mrs. Holmes to be back at theirs for Christmas. It had been years since Sherlock visited, and when he heard Lestrade was going with Mycroft, it made that decision much easier.

But they had gifts to wrap. As if last minute shopping wasn’t bad enough, there was a queue all the way out into the street at the gift-wrapping station. John didn’t want to leave Sherlock home alone for too long lest he wakes up from his post-case coma to find himself alone, and panics.

Armed with five gifts, a huge bag of wrapping paper and ribbons, he climbed up the stairs to 221B. The door was ajar, indicating that Sherlock was already up.

“Oh good, you’re home…” Sherlock was perched on his chair, then paused his sentence when he saw John carrying all those things, “Christmas gifts. Hmm, perhaps you should have gotten the other colour for Mother. Why did you get Mycroft a present? It’s completely unnecessary.” Sherlock hopped off the chair and took the gifts held under John’s arm.

“It wouldn’t look very good if  **we** got everyone something except Mycroft, wouldn’t it?” John retorted and dropped the bag of wrappers on the kitchen table. “Now I just need to figure out how to wrap all these.”

“It’s easy. Just make sure they are wrapped.” Sherlock said with his  _ that-is-obvious _ tone.

John spent the next six hours trying to figure out how to wrap them neatly. He failed countless times and was running out of wrapping paper. There were bits and pieces of ribbons and paper all over the kitchen, tape stuck on the surface of the table and even on John’s jumper.

“John. Dinner?” Sherlock asked when he came out of his old room. He was doing an experiment inside and wondered why hadn’t John called him to eat, or bring tea like he usually does. When he saw the mess in the kitchen, a loud slap resounded in the flat. Sherlock slapped his palm so hard on his forehead it made him lightheaded.

“Dinner? What time is it?” John asked without looking away, still trying to wrap a cylindrical box with a bottle of whiskey in it.

Sherlock has had enough. The way John was wrapping the gifts, it would take him till the next Christmas before he figures it out. He pushed John out of the way and swiftly wrapped it up, taping it under the paper, folding the corners neatly, and even tied a perfect ribbon on top. “It’s almost eight. And now you understand my state of mind when I’m doing an experiment, hmm?”

_ Damn it _ , John thought.  _ How the fuck is he wrapping these gifts so quickly? _

And Sherlock, from a quick glance, saw John’s astonishment. “I worked at a gift station once while stalking a woman who was a cashier by day, murderess by night. She got away with it by threatening the boy who worked at the gift station before me. She tried to pull the same with me, but lo and behold, she made the wrong choice. It was either me or this old lady who can barely hear, but could wrap any shape or form with her eyes closed. I only learn from the best, John, and you can clearly learn a thing or two about gift wrapping from me.”

Ten minutes later, all the gifts were properly wrapped, and Sherlock realised he was having a monologue all along. John had retired to his chair and fell asleep. Then he had a devious plan. There was enough ribbon to go all around…

A loud knock from downstairs woke John up. He didn’t realise he had fell asleep after calling for Chinese takeaway. When he tried to get up, he noticed he was stuck. Tied down by ribbons and a neat bow in front of his stomach.

“Sherlock!” He shouted and struggled to get out of his chair.

Sherlock ran back up the stairs when he heard John shouting. He told the delivery boy to keep the change.

“I’m here!” Sherlock announced when he got back upstairs. “I got the food. Stay still John!” He ordered when he saw John still pulling against the ribbons.

“Let me out. Now.” John said sternly, but was later put in his place with a sly smirk on Sherlock’s face. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“Would you like dumplings or  _ lo mien _ ? I was thinking I could… feed you?” Sherlock answered hesitantly, not too sure if John was in the mood to play games like this.

It took John a moment to consider if it was a good idea. He tried to imagine Sherlock feeding him while he was tied to his chair securely with a ribbon… his blood rushed south and his arousal was a good enough answer for Sherlock.

With a nod, John settled back down, relaxing into his chair and waited for Sherlock to unpack their dinner. Sherlock, for as long as John knew him, loves Chinese food for one ridiculous reason - to use chopsticks. Apparently eating spaghetti with chopsticks is an abomination, culturally appropriate or not.

Picking up a dumpling swiftly with a pair of wooden chopsticks, Sherlock lifted it close to John’s open mouth, but not close enough for him to bite. John had pulled himself as far forward as he could, but still slightly out of reach from the dumpling. “Damn it Sherlock. Let a man eat!”

“Hmm… I’ll think about it.” Sherlock continued to tease John by waving the dumpling in his face.

John was hungry, and horny, and everything else in between. If Sherlock was going to play that game, he could very well retaliate. The next time Sherlock moved the dumpling close enough, John reached out with his tongue and licked the dumpling really provocatively. Intentionally, he let a bit of his saliva pull into a strand and licked his lips when Sherlock dropped the dumpling. His little scheme to provoke Sherlock had worked. Because the next thing John knew, Sherlock threw the chopsticks onto the floor and moved to straddle John, humping the doctor hard and fast.

“Oh shit.” John gasped when Sherlock bucked a little higher. His erection was filling up fast, and he could feel his testicles drawn up tight. He was close, too close. He cried for Sherlock to slow down, but the brunet wouldn’t have it.

“I want you to come in your pants for me John.”

That voice. Who could say no to that voice? John stopped giving a fuck and allowed himself to come. Still on top of him, Sherlock kept grinding against John’s now stained front of his trousers until he too, came.

“Fuck. That was…” John took a deep breath and tilted his head forward onto Sherlock’s shoulder, “intense, that. I hope you have plans to do laundry tonight.”

“Nope.” Was all Sherlock said when he pulled on one end of the ribbon to release John.

John rolled his shoulder and reached forward to hug Sherlock. “Was that the goal of all this?”

“No. The plan was to get you to realise you could have unravelled the ribbon. I didn’t include a scenario where I was a distraction. I wanted to see how you would analyse and respond to a situation like this.”

“You already know I can. Why… oh.” John realised halfway through his sentence what Sherlock wanted to really see. “You wanted to see Captain Watson in action, did you?” He lowered his voice and mumbled into Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock shuddered. John wasn’t an idiot, no, but he really didn’t expect John to figure him out so quickly. He admitted that by nodding, only to receive a chuckle from the man beneath him.

“Okay. You can just tell me next time. If it wasn’t for the ribbon… ugh, I don’t think I can look at another red ribbon without getting hard now.” John looked at long length of ribbon now hanging off the arms of his chair. Then he was hit with a spark of genius. Staring at Sherlock in the eyes, he shuffled a little in his chair to find the right position, then with a grunt, he lifted Sherlock up. “How’s that for some action?” John asked with a big smile on his face.

“Take me to bed, Captain.”

“Nowhere else I’d rather be, love. Nowhere else.”


	19. Outsmarting the Holmes(es)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had a tough time writing this one. I may revisit this after Christmas.

John Watson, in all his life, had never thought about living with a man, moreover dating one. When he first met Sherlock Holmes in a lab, he had never expected the man to be such an integral part of his life. Fast forward to today, they are sleeping in the same bed, eating meals on the same table, even working off the same computer. Keeping secrets was almost impossible, except for one.

Gregory Lestrade, a DI at New Scotland Yard, did not climb the ranks by using Sherlock’s consulting services. Neither did he do it by bedding the older Holmes. It was all from his own efforts. As much as Sherlock calls him an idiot and Mycroft calls him a teddy bear, there is a side to him that rarely manifests at home with Mycroft. That side of Lestrade doesn’t come out when Sherlock is around either.

But with John - his best bud John - it was free-for-all.

The one secret John had been keeping wasn’t his to tell anyway, therefore not really keeping a secret from Sherlock. As much as the consulting git had moaned and stropped about John keeping a potential secret from him, there was nothing John can say.

Neither can Sherlock deduce because the secret isn’t on him.

 

It was a Christmas surprise. For as long as Greg knew Mycroft, the minor government servant loved Christmas. Not for the historical significance, but his early childhood memories he had at home in Sussex.

This Christmas, they were engaged. There was so much to plan for the wedding, at the same time, so much to execute for the surprise. Greg needed as much help as possible to pull it off, and when he heard that John will be back in Sussex with Sherlock for Christmas, he sat the doctor down and laid out his plan.

“What the flying fuck?” John exclaimed after Greg was done. “How… what did you do to DI Lestrade, you imposter?”

“C’mon. John! I’m not that big of an idiot.”

“No. You’re not, obviously. This is something I can see Mycroft planning… not you!”

Greg tried to pretend he was offended, but ended up with a grin. Putting him on the same pedestal as Mycroft intellectually felt as good as he thought it would.

 

Arriving in Sussex was a relief, physically and mentally. Mycroft had been holding his bladder in since they left the service station. He could’ve asked Greg to stop again, but after the DI stopped twice to relieve his own bladder, Mycroft gave him hell for it. The last thing he need in this trip was to have Greg throwing his harsh words back at himself.

Greg knew what Mycroft was feeling. He had intentionally made breakfast together with orange juice, coffee and a large canister of Mycroft’s favourite tea to bring on the road. He knew Mycroft wouldn’t be able to resist drinking it all. Greg found out, after years of being with this man, that there was a small piece in his brain that dictates his body to reach out for that particular brand of tea, and drink it, whether he knew he was doing it or not.

This part of the plan was crucial. He needed Mycroft to rush into the house and leave him alone to deal with the bags. Earlier that week, Greg had packed the surprise where the spare tyre compartment was. He also knew Mycroft was anal about travelling long distance without a driver, and he would insist Greg to send the car in for a check before leaving.

Which was exactly what Greg did.

The board to the spare tyre compartment was moved, which would only attest to Greg’s claim that he had the spare checked. The surprise was hidden, safe and sound. The second part of the plan was with the tea. Then comes the third part - Sherlock Holmes.

This is where John comes in.

Sherlock was smitten with John ever since they started officially dating. John had been keeping Greg’s secret thus far, and hadn’t spilled a single drop of it. The boys from Baker Street was scheduled to arrive at the Holmes’ home two hours before Greg and Mycroft did. Also from experience with Sherlock, Greg knew Sherlock would be very very focused on John. But he was only sixty percent sure that it would work. The contingency plan was to have John keep Sherlock in the bedroom… occupied.

That part of the plan was set in motion two days prior to them leaving for Sussex. Greg pulled out a cold case that he had kept hidden in his work desk ever since he started planning for this. It involved a fetish club and army men - both things Sherlock seem to be unable to pull away from, according to John.

John and Sherlock went undercover. The doctor had his fatigues on, and Sherlock was dressed as skimpily possible without getting an ASBO. They slipped into the club to investigate but ended up finding something way more. Sherlock solved the case the moment they walked next to the bar. He sent a chain of text messages to Lestrade and called the case closed. Sherlock was about to leave when he saw John standing there, radiating power and authority like he always did without the jumper. Sherlock’s knees gave, and he knelt in front of John, looking up at his captain/doctor with all the emotions he can push through his eyes.

No one gave them another glance because it was  _ that _ sort of club. Not that it would have bothered them anyway.

Looking at his incoming texts that night, Greg was happy it went according to plan, and with a grateful army doctor on his side, all was well as it could get.

Now that Sherlock had a newfound hobby, John made sure to pack his fatigues to Sussex as well. Since that night, Sherlock had been wearing John’s dog tags. It made him feel grounded, as if John has his hands on his chest at all times. He was floating in subspace, riding the high, when he heard Mycroft’s Jaguar purr outside the window.

John immediately placed noise-cancelling headphones over his ears and pushed Sherlock’s head back down on his lap, gently carding his fingers through the brunet’s curls, silently instructing him to ignore everything but John.

And Sherlock obeyed. His mind was filled with John in all his senses. He could feel John’s pulse from the wrist pressed against his forehead, the masculine musk and soap from where his face was pressed against John’s clothed crotch, the warmth emanating from the doctor, his Captain Watson.

The doctor knew exactly what he was doing. As he kept Sherlock grounded, he heard the door downstairs open and someone’s footsteps rushing in, then another door slammed quickly. A minute later, there were heavy footsteps outside his door in the hallway, heading down the other end where Mycroft’s room is.

Everything had gone exactly how Lestrade planned it, without missing a beat.

_ Damn he’s a genius. _ John thought silently to himself, enjoying the calm afternoon before Mr. and Mrs. Holmes gets back from shopping in town.

 

Mycroft was washing his hands when he heard the door to his room close. He had heard the all-too-familiar creaking sounds of his own bedroom door and wondered what it was, only realising that it was his door after six seconds, which was far too long. His mind was so occupied with the urgent neuron signals from his bladder, his mind was struggling to catch up. 

He was about to knock when the door opened with a loud  _ whoosh _ . Greg was standing there smiling as bright as the sunlight coming through the open window.

“Come. I have a surprise for you.” Greg held onto Mycroft’s wrist tight, and pulled him to sit at the edge of the bed.

“You know you can’t hide anything from me. Whatever the surprise is, I already know.” Mycroft cockily replied, which to his own dismay, he saw Greg’s naughty smirk.

“Wanna bet? If it’s a surprise you already know, I’ll make breakfast every day until next Christmas.”

“You can’t lose when the punishment is something you obviously enjoy doing… but yes, breakfast every morning.”

Greg held Mycroft’s hands in his, and knelt down.

“I know we’re already engaged, but I want to do this for you as well.” Greg pulled out a ring from his back pocket, an old-looking gold band with carvings on the inside that said  _ Lestrade _ . “It was my great-grandfather’s, and I want you to have it.” He then gently slid the ring into Mycroft’s left ring finger, and kissing the back of his hand.

“I had no idea.” Mycroft gasped out after a solid minute, or two. He truly had no idea. How was it possible for Gregory to  _ smuggle  _ an heirloom into their own home and bringing it back to his family home, and not one, but two Holmeses had not seen it coming?

“I’m not as big of an idiot as your brother thinks. And I kept him occupied.” 

When Greg answered his question, Mycroft realised he had been thinking out loud. There was nothing he could say, but to admit that for once, Gregory Lestrade had outsmarted the both of them. It bruised his own ego, but at the same time delighted that the man he chose to marry was even more wonderful than he already is.

And for once, he chose to admit his own defeat, out loud.

“You win, Gregory. Now I get to cook breakfast for a year.”

“And I want bacon with ice cream pancakes tomorrow morning, my sweetest pumpkin pie.”


	20. IOU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg owes John one. What would John ask for?

It wasn’t the first time John or Greg had met the Holmes parents, but that was when they were only friends with their sons. Now that they are dating/engaged with one, it was to no one’s surprise that they were anxious going down the stairs towards the kitchen for dinner.

The smell of a fantastic roast lingered in the hallways. The moment John opened the door to their room, he caught a whiff of it, along with freshly baked honey biscuits. He recognised that smell from when Sherlock brought some home, reheating it in the microwave. 

On the other end of the hallway, Mycroft was dressing down (yes,  _ down _ because Mother does not approve of a three-piece suit at the family table). He pulled on a cashmere wool jumper on top of his crisp white shirt. When Greg came out of the ensuite, he did a double take at his fiance.

“Are you wearing… is that a…” Greg was lost for words. Never had he seen Mycroft wear anything other than parts of a three-piece suit, his pyjamas or a birthday suit.

“Yes I do have casual clothes despite what you see in my closet. Mother is very particular about… in her words, not mine,  _ warm and fluffy _ dress code for the family dinner table.” Mycroft kept tugging at his shirt sleeve under the jumper, feeling a tad bit uncomfortable.

“Did you just say  _ fluffy _ ?” Greg teased, then walked over to slowly undress Mycroft, pulling the jumper off him, then unbuttoning the shirt, pulling it off Mycroft’s shoulder. His fingers lingered when it grazed over Mycroft’s chest. A sharp breath was drawn between them, but neither man knew who it was. The DI shook his head, the went to the chest drawer behind him and looked for another shirt.

It really did not matter what Greg had in mind to  _ not _ do, because Mycroft loves it when Greg does this, especially when he’s naked, only with a towel hung low around his hip. He loves it when Greg is at ease around him, doing what he deemed right at that moment. It was a habit Mycroft couldn’t indulge himself in, and probably never will. Control was what made him, and he cannot afford to let anything slip.

Greg came back with another dress shirt, but it was a semi-spread collar instead of the usual Oxford button-downs that Mycroft owns. Lifting an eyebrow, Mycroft asked Greg assuming that was Greg’s shirt, “would that fit me?” 

“I called Sheppard and asked them to tailor one for you. It’s less stiff, a more comfortable material to wear underneath jumpers.” Greg smiled, knowing that he had once again surprised his lover.

Mycroft thanked him with a gentle kiss, then pulled the shirt on, followed by the jumper. Greg was right, it felt a lot less stiff than before.

 

At the dinner table, both Holmes brothers behaved like they did when they were young. Mrs. Holmes wasn’t shy to smack them at the back of their head when they start squabbling like young children. Mycroft was teasing Sherlock about his new  _ necklace _ when it all went to hell.

They both sat there across each other, silently sniping at each other. It went to the point where they started kicking each other under the table. That was when Mrs. Holmes stood up and grabbed the nearest newspaper, rolled it up and smacked the kitchen counter really hard. That  _ whack _ stopped time.

“Take it outside.” She said, and the brothers pushed their chairs back in sync and walked out the front door.

While the boys were outside having it out, Mrs. Holmes explained that they used to fight when there are other people around, but on their own, they would stop almost immediately and actually be loving to each other. It was odd, but she knew that they have their own way of showing affection to each other.

The bell to the oven rang, and it was time for dessert - bread pudding. Mycroft and Sherlock were nowhere to be found. Mrs. Holmes opened the front door and she could smell it. They were bloody smoking!

“Are you boys smoking?” She asked, knowing they wouldn’t admit it. But it’s really adorable to see them panic about these little things.

Both of them hid their lit cigarette behind their backs when they turned around to face their mother. “Nope.” Mycroft said quickly, trying to keep the smoke in his lungs. But Sherlock on the other hand, being the little menace that he is, threw Mycroft straight under the bus and pointed his finger at Mycroft saying “Mycroft’s smoking.”

Mrs. Holmes only shook her head, chuckling to herself when she finally closed the door behind her. She stared at them for a good two minutes, wondering how much longer they would hold their breath with smoke in their lungs…

 

Back in the kitchen, Mr. Holmes was alone with his two future son-in-laws, and they were awkwardly sipping on wine. Greg is terrible at breaking ice in these situations, but he couldn’t stand the tension across the table anymore.

Anxiously, he blurted out “looks like the normal folks are left behind, huh?”

John could not hold it in. It was so awkward to the point of both John and Mr. Holmes had burst out laughing.

“Well, it is his first time here. I don’t blame you, Gregory.” Mr. Holmes quickly commented when he stopped gasping for air.

John, on the other hand, took the conversation another route, telling Mr. Holmes about a few cases they hadn’t wrote on the blog yet. Greg chimed in when John makes errors about the finer details, but Greg slowly warmed up to Mr. Holmes and laughed along with them.

 

When the brothers finally came back to rejoin the group, bread pudding was served, and the dinner table was once again bustling with warmth and laughter. Three couples, two generations and one family, sharing their lives with each other without barriers. For the first time, Mrs. Holmes saw the sparkle in her younger son’s eyes as John fed him a spoonful of pudding. For the first time, she saw Mycroft’s smile causing the side of his eyes to wrinkle.

And for the first time, she caught Greg and Mycroft rutting against each other on the kitchen sink. She was more than furious. It wasn’t because they were in love, no...

“Manners!” She shouted. “I taught you better than that, Mycroft Alexander Holmes!”

“I deeply apologise, Mother. There was no excuse. You were right, I should have known better.” He said while giving Greg a nudge to say something.

“Mrs. Holmes, I am really, really sorry. We are both grown men, we should have respected your home and you both more than anything.”

Nothing else was said between them that night, and surprisingly, Sherlock didn’t appear to gloat at them that night, nor the next morning.

“Mother. Why isn’t there breakfast?” Sherlock asked when he sat down at the table the following morning while John walked to the counter to make coffee.

“Ask your brother and his fiancee.” She said before grabbing her coat and left with her husband in tow.

John had no idea what happened the night before, but he could sense that she was furious about something they did.

When Greg and Mycroft finally appeared, John asked what did they do to make Mrs. Holmes that mad. What he heard was beyond his belief. He didn’t trust his own ears the first time, and asked them to repeat it.

“You heard perfectly well John. I heard Mother shouting last night when you were snoring away.” Sherlock answered on behalf of the other two without looking up from the papers. He took a large gulp of his coffee, then announced that he has some samples to collect from the garden, leaving John alone with Greg and Mycroft.

“Give me your phone mate.” John reached out his hand and asked for Greg’s mobile.

John felt for them. He remembered the first and only time they were caught fucking on the stairs by Mrs. Hudson, and the hell that she rained upon them. He had goosebumps just thinking about it. So he decided to help a mate out, and sent a text to Mrs. Holmes from Greg’s phone.

“What did you send?” Mycroft asked, then peeked over at Greg’s mobile to read the message John sent. A loud gasp, then a groan came from both of them when they realised what John had done to them.

“You didn’t!” Greg said when reality sank in.

“Well, you owed me one. Consider your IOU repaid.” John smirked and left them quickly to join Sherlock in the garden.

 

In town, Mrs. Holmes was nursing a cup of tea trying to simmer down when her mobile buzzed in her purse.

**Will you be our wedding planner? - Greg & Mycroft**

She squealed so loud that everyone around the cafe turned to stare at her. Mr. Holmes was equally delighted although his reaction was more subtle.

“You’ve always wanted to plan a wedding. Now is your chance.”

“Ohhh my dear. If this was their way of apologising, I would forgive them ten times over! Not that I want to plan ten weddings for them, but think of the possibilities! We could hire a circus! I’ve always wanted to see how a circus wedding would be like---” and she went on and on...

 

Planning a circus wedding for Gregory & Mycroft Holmes-Lestrade.


	21. Solstice

Winter Solstice is the shortest day of the year. It just happened that this particular year, John was spending it with Sherlock Holmes, his now life as well as crime-fighting partner, at his family home.

What John did not expect was Sherlock… baking?

John knew from Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock was learning to roast a turkey, and he assumed that was all there is. He himself had baked a gingerbread house in the morning of the 21st while Sherlock was whisked out to town with his mother, Mycroft towed along.

When Sherlock came back, he started kneading dough and boiling a really spiced up… broth? Or was it soup? John had no idea. Not until after dinner. The sky was clear in the countryside, and the weather was nice. The older Holmes couple decided to have their dessert in the garden, and made the other four go with.

Sherlock brought along a tray with six bowls. In those bowls were that spiced  _ soup _ (John decided to call it that) and floating in the soup were little balls of flour.

“Glutinous flour. Made out of glutinous rice finely milled, generally grown in Southeast Asia. Those are called  _ tang yuan _ in China and parts around it. Asian culture fascinated me, still fascinates me.” Sherlock answered when John asked what were those.

“And the…” John was blushing, a little embarrassed that he had no idea what the  _ soup  _ was supposed to be called, and didn’t want to say it out loud lest he got it wrong.

“Soup. Ginger, molasses, nutmeg and cinnamon. But they generally use palm sugar, which is hard to get in this continent.”

John beamed and smiled, giving himself a mental pat on the back when he realised he got it right calling it soup.

Mrs. Holmes had seconds, so did Greg. John, however, didn’t really enjoy the texture of the little balls. It gave Sherlock a false impression that he did not make it right, and spent the rest of the evening outside in his mind palace, trying to work out a different recipe.

“It was my first year in college when Sherlock found my book about China’s culture and how it had affected it’s politics.” Mycroft started out of nowhere. Now John was listening very intently. This would be the first time he’s heard Sherlock’s childhood from Mycroft’s perspective. “He was wrapped up in it. Even started getting ingredients shipped over from all over Asia.”

“He started cooking that young?” John asked.

“No. He wanted to correct the book. There were descriptions of different flavours and texture, and he thought it was too abstract. In order to write to the authors and rectify that, he had to know for sure he was right. Then he stumbled across this dessert, which was culturally a dish Chinese people have on Winter Solstice. I won’t bore you with the cultural details, but know that he’s very fond of it.” Mycroft ended with an accusatory tone, hinting at John to have another bowl.

“I’m not too fond of the texture, but the soup was decadent. I’d have another bowl of the soup.”

Sherlock, in his mind palace, heard John praising his soup in echoes, and decided to come out. When he did, John shoved an empty bowl in his face and asked for another bowl. John even said “please”!

He ran into the kitchen, quickly serving John with another bowl of spiced soup and sat shoulder to shoulder with the man.

“Hurry up and finish that. You’re going to miss the meteor shower.” Sherlock nudged John when the doctor finally put down his bowl.

“I’m savouring it!” John huffed, but was distracted by a streak of light in the sky. “Oh look! There it is! Make a wish, hurry!” He pointed at the sky with one hand, the other quickly wrapping it around Sherlock’s waist.

John closed his eyes and made a wish to spend the rest of his living years with Sherlock. In a flurry of madness, or in peaceful domesticity. Either way he wants Sherlock there.

Sherlock never believed in making wishes, but seeing John’s contented face, he decided why not. He wished that John would never be taken away from him, in life or death...

And John would one day fall in love with the texture of glutinous rice balls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm Chinese by heritage, and we do celebrate Winter Solstice in my house by eating that dessert Sherlock made. I couldn't resist my favourite ship falling in love with my culture!


	22. New Scotland Yard

Coming back from Sussex on Christmas day was difficult. It was hard to say goodbye to clean air, home-cooked meals, to the peace and quiet of the countryside. But all good things will end eventually. Greg knows that, but he just simply couldn’t hide his disappointment.

Or maybe his disappointment was multiplied tenfold when Mycroft decided not to attend the Yard’s Christmas party as Greg’s plus one, citing an international emergency.

Figuratively, they were still in the closet although they had been dating for years and engaged for over two weeks now. The little devil in Greg’s mind had been consistently teasing him about how Mycroft is ashamed of being seen with a close-to-fifty policeman. That voice in his head was enforced by Mycroft’s awkwardness to public displays of affection.

“You promised you’d come as my date!” Greg tried not to shout, but he was getting tired of it. “Every single time you want to get out of something, you cite a work emergency. Am I less important than your job? Or is money and power so seductive to you? Why don’t you marry them then, hmm? I never thought you were so shallow, Mycroft Holmes!” And he stormed out of Mycroft’s office, leaving the minor government official to his own thoughts.

Mycroft didn’t get a chance to respond before Greg stormed out. Internally he was struggling to understand where that explosion originated from, until Anthea walked in with a smirk she normally carried when she has the answer to his troubles.

“Talk.” Mycroft said, knowing that she wouldn’t give him the answer unless asked.

“Sir, his insecurities stemmed from his previous marriage. I’m surprised it’s taking you…” Anthea looked at her watch and back at Mycroft, “a little under five minutes not figuring that out. Plus, were you not expecting him to react this way when you planned this?”

“We may be friends outside this office, but keep your snark outside.” Mycroft said, annoyed that aside from his day to day duties, now he has to rely on Anthea with his personal life as well.

“Nothing to be embarrassed about, sir. We all need help sometimes.” She said, unaffected by his demeanor, then leaving a folder on the table before she left.

 

That evening, Greg drove himself to the Yard, armed with six boxes of Christmas cookies, looking forward to drinking the night away. After he stormed out of Mycroft’s office, the little blow out he had occupied his mind the entire afternoon. He may have toed the line there, but what he said was how Mycroft’s behaviour made him feel, and as his late mother always said, there is nothing wrong with how he felt about anything.

He walked into the bullpen and found some new faces. Some of them are newly promoted Sergeants working with Dimmock. He went over to introduce himself, only to be surrounded by fans of John’s blog. Bombarded by questions about Sherlock and John, he was getting a little fed up. So when someone actually expressed their interest in DI Gregory Lestrade, he was over the moon. If he can’t get Mycroft’s, no harm getting a little from the Yard.

But the conversation took a nasty turn that made him sick to his stomach. The new Sergeant obviously had heard about his divorced status, and assumed he couldn’t let go because of the ring he’s wearing on his finger. 

Because no one knew he had Mycroft Holmes. No one knew he was newly engaged.

“I’m engaged to someone else.” He announced, and most of his team were obviously eavesdropping because their conversations halted. The bullpen became silent.

“Are you serious boss? How long have you been engaged? How come we’ve never known?” Donovan asked, barging into the conversation.

Greg stayed silent. He contemplated telling her the truth, but ended up telling a half-truth. “We’re just laying low. We’re both almost fifty. Not something to shout about, apparently…”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Mycroft said from the entrance.

Greg heard that voice and turned around, staring blankly at his fiance with a fully assembled gingerbread house in his hand. On the front there’s a small sugar statue of Greg (obvious because of the silver hair) and a placket in his hand that said “Not my division”.

“Mycroft.” Greg whispered to himself and jogged over to the other man, relieving him from carrying the gingerbread house, placing it on the table nearby.

“Hello love.” Mycroft whispered when they were close enough. He also noticed everyone in the Yard had their focus on them, but when Greg turned over with a big grin, their surroundings faded. There was just Gregory. He reached out and held Greg’s waist, pulling the DI into a hug, then promptly kissing the man’s cheeks, lips, and ending at the tip of his nose.

A loud cough jerked them slightly apart, but arms still wrapped around each other. Donovan was the brave one (or the really nosy one), decided to ask on behalf of everyone. “And who might you be?”

“Mycroft Holmes. I’m DI Lestrade’s date…” Mycroft was already sporting a blush thinking about publicly claiming Greg, “and fiance.”

Greg pulled away with a big smile, tears threatening to fall from the corner of his eyes. He blinked hard a few times to stop them, but they ended up streaming down his cheeks. Mycroft pulled out a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, dabbing the tears on his beloved’s face. With one hand still entwined with Greg’s, he gave it a hard squeeze to reassure the DI that all this was real.

DI Dimmock decided it was better if they broke the awkward silence, so he headed towards Mycroft to introduce himself. They shook hands, and everyone seemed to appreciate that as they went about resuming their own conversations.

Amongst the bustling warmth in the Yard, Greg was still standing right where he was. He’s happier than he had ever been. He thought it might be caused by Mycroft’s surprise visit. Or perhaps it was multiplied a hundred fold that Mycroft had announced their love publicly.

Either way, that night, Gregory Lestrade was undoubtedly the happiest man in New Scotland Yard.


	23. Surprise Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprises are not easy to pull off. One must wonder how Mycroft Holmes plans his surprises, being the mastermind that he is.

“What are you doing here sir?” Anthea asked when she startled herself seeing Mycroft sitting in his office, nonchalantly reading a book on African National Policies.

“I have plans. Don’t mind me.” Mycroft responded without looking up from the paragraph he was reading. He can sense Anthea rustling some paper on his desk, but eventually looked up when she cleared her throat and sat down.

Mycroft should have known better than to fool her. She was trained by the best - himself.

“Fine. I planned to surprise Gregory at the New Scotland Yard party tonight, so I sent him a text and said there was an international emergency.” Mycroft said proudly.

Anthea shook her head violently and when she stopped, it ended with a sigh. “You cancelled on him for the first public event you both will show up as an engaged couple?”

Before Mycroft digested what she had just said, his door swung wide open and slammed the wall behind it. Greg was standing there, panting out of breath. As Anthea made herself scarce, she closed the door behind her, but could still hear the DI shouting.

When he left, all Anthea saw was a sad man, shoulders hunched, head hung low, absolutely disappointed. She waited for a few minutes before knocking on her boss’ door, hoping that he had realised what he did.

Although he’s a genius, he’s daft about things pertaining to the heart. As much as her boss pretends to be one above everyone else, it took him a very long time to realise he was in love with the DI. It had all ended well with their engagement, and hopefully a marriage lasting a lifetime. She cared about Mycroft as much as herself, and wouldn’t let a small misunderstanding like this to break up the two.

There was nothing Mycroft could do except to play the surprise out. The beginning of the game had took a surprisingly nasty turn. He never wanted it to hurt Gregory. It was unintentional, but the damage had been done. For a second he considered going home to explain, but Anthea knew Greg would need some time to simmer off. Perhaps, just perhaps, they would both realise how painful it is to be apart, angry at each other, and learn to care of each other’s heart a little more next time.

“Thank you, Anthea. And could you arrange for this list of ingredients to be sent to the club kitchen? Make an arrangement--” He was cut off mid-sentence when Anthea grabbed the list from his hand and held up her hand.

“I know. I’ll get them to preheat the ovens as well, dear sir.” She said as she walked away, leaving Mycroft alone in his office again.

 

Twenty minutes later, Mycroft found himself standing in the vast kitchen of Diogenes Club, an array of ingredients on the countertop in front of him. The initial plan was to show up at the Yard’s party with flowers, but he was afraid that it wasn’t enough anymore, given the blowout Gregory had that morning.

“All for love.” He sighed as he wrapped a pink flowery apron around his waist. It was the only one available (apparently).

 

Showing up at the Yard was nerve-wracking. His hands were shaking the entire car ride, and as much as he willed himself to calm down, he couldn’t. His driver, sensing that his employer was nervous, knocked on the privacy screen - a request to speak to Mycroft. Mycroft opened the screen and his driver turned around.

“Sir, please let me know if I’m out of line here, but I want to assure you that everything will be alright. DI Lestrade is head over heels for you. He’ll forgive you once he realise what you planned.” He said respectfully.

“Thank you, James. You weren’t out of line. I appreciate your concern.” Upon hearing another person’s point of view, he immediately was reassured. Taking a deep breath, he lifted up the gingerbread house modelled after the Yard with a small figurine of Lestrade in front, and marched straight up to his lover’s floor.

 

After the big surprise, Mycroft was secretly pleased that Greg was now back to his chirpy self. As the night passed, he had met most of Gregory’s colleagues, and was pleased to know that they were happy for them. Amongst all the conversations he’s had, the one with Donovan was the most enlightening.

“He was miserable, you know. I’d walk in at seven and he’s already here. Some days I wondered if he actually left. Even offered him to move in with my brother and I, just so he’s got company, but he flat out refused. But then, there was this one day when he just turned one-eighty, but we had no idea it was you. We speculated that he was just finally over it, and decided best to move on. But there were days I suspected he was seeing someone, coming in all bright, and generous with buying us the good coffee across the street.” Donovan said.

“And I’m glad to hear that you care. Most won’t bother with their bosses. Thank you, for keeping him sane during that time. I wouldn’t have had him if it wasn’t for people who care.”

“You’re really a big softie inside, aren’t you?” She teased with a smirk.

“And you’ll keep that a secret, or you’ll find yourself in the middle of the Atlantic by sunrise tomorrow.” Mycroft threatened gently, both of them knowing it was a joke that could become reality if she crossed the line.

“Your secret’s safe with me.” She gave him a nod and walked away when she noticed Lestrade coming towards them.

 

On their way home, Mycroft brought up the one-sided argument Greg had with him earlier that afternoon, and both agreed that they had messed up.

“Sorry I overreacted. You’ve pretty much given up your job for me. I shouldn’t have… I don’t know what I was thinking.” Greg said with his head leaning on Mycroft’s shoulder, one hand placed on the other’s knee, gently drawing circles around.

Mycroft had to take a minute to collect himself, then hummed in agreement before responding. “I apologise as well, for putting my work ahead of you in the past. I was, too, insecure about you. I made the decision to retire when I was sure. I was afraid that if you had left me, I would have nothing left. But now I’m sure I’ll have you for the rest of my life, I would drop anything in my life to keep you with me.”

Greg looked up at Mycroft through his lashes, and Mycroft was looking down at him. They both shared a smile, then Mycroft moved down for their lips to meet together. It was gentle, not the usual nip and bite they share after a fight. It was a kiss of reassurance, security and affection.

“Oh,” Greg pulled away with a gasp, “that means you can never pull the ‘International crisis’ card on me ever again. Would that ruin future surprises?”

That had not come across Mycroft’s mind up till that moment. He groaned in frustration, only to receive a chuckle that evolved into a full blown laughing fit from Gregory.

But little did Greg know, that was the beginning of another surprise already.


	24. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For jimins_future_wife. I'm a 22 words short of 3k, but here you go, as requested, 3000 words of bottom!lock. xxxx
> 
> I'm playing very fast and loose with the theme, but I think it's good enough since I've wrote the "Family" theme in an earlier chapter with Mr. & Mrs. Holmes.

**A little after midnight:** **  
** “Oh god! John!” Sherlock moaned as John ground his hips down, putting a significant amount of pressure on Sherlock’s crotch with his own. His eyes were shut tight, afraid of triggering an orgasm from seeing John in his camouflage. The sight of his very own Captain Watson made his trousers even tighter than they already were, and he was sure his zipper had made an imprint on the underside of his cock.

He went commando the entire day, just as the Captain ordered.

John took him by surprise after the little gift Greg planned for them. And he was still pleasantly surprised at how domineering his doctor was, given that he had hid all that away under ugly jumpers for years.

The day they got back to Baker Street from the Holmes’ cottage, Captain Watson once again made an appearance.

 

 **Earlier that morning:** **  
** “No pants, my dear. If you’re good, Captain Watson will come out to play tonight.” John whispered in Sherlock’s ear as he got out of the cab, towing both their luggages upstairs and left Sherlock to pay the fare. They had just arrived back from the train station after spending three lovely days in Sussex with Mr. and Mrs. Holmes.

John’s voice made Sherlock shudder, mind racing through all the possible sexual things they could do all night. He spent the entire time in the shower thinking about it, intentionally ignoring his erection in favour of what John had in store. The thoughts continued when he was in his old room with a pair of trousers and a shirt, snapping out of it when he heard John flush the toilet, knowing that he had probably less than one minute to put on his trousers at breakneck speed.

The rest of the day went on as if nothing had happened. Sherlock continued his mould experiment while John made tea, tapping away letter by letter updating their blog with their latest case on the child murderer. But occasionally, John would glance over to Sherlock and make a lewd gesture with his tongue.

Sherlock broke more test tubes that day than he did his entire life.

 

 **During dinner:** **  
** John had intentionally sat next to Sherlock, one hand scooping up fried rice with his spoon from the takeaway carton, the other casually fondling Sherlock’s trousers covered cock.

“Eat up. You’ll need a lot of energy tonight.” John said with a lusty grin when he noticed Sherlock had stopped eating in favour of panting out his mouth.

The detective’s cock was slowly filling up. In fact, it had been half hard most of the day, except for the moments he dropped test tubes. Cleaning was not a turn on at all, whether John was staring at his arse or not.

“John… please.” Sherlock whined after finishing half his fried noodles and two pieces of sweet and sour pork, plus all the pineapples from it.

“Just leave the dishes in the sink and go take a shower. Thoroughly, my love. I’m gonna need five minutes, alright?” John said as he stood up to go upstairs to their bedroom.

Sherlock nodded, then went to the shower after piling up their dirty dishes in the sink. He made sure he cleaned every nook and cranny of his body, not that there were many on his lanky body. In there, he was so tempted to get a bit of relief, but reconsidered again when his mind wandered to what John could have planned for them-- for him. He dried up and wrapped himself in his robe, with nothing underneath it, and went upstairs anxiously.

He was excited but worried at the same time. While they have explored many sexual acts, one that had not yet happen was Sherlock bottoming. He’s had John’s finger a few times, not that Sherlock cared, but he never had a good experience being penetrated. He was either high or knocked out when those times happened, and the aftermath was a little hassle to deal with. There were never any serious injuries, because even when he was high, he made sure that he was well loosened up before making any deals, just in case a blowjob wasn’t enough to pay for his building tolerance to cocaine.

Then John happened. Ever since they have met each other, Sherlock had started to build a family with him unknowingly. It wasn’t the greatest family unit in the world, but for Sherlock, the two of them was enough. It was perfect.

 

 **That night:**   
“Come in.” John said when he heard Sherlock knock on their bedroom door.

Sherlock opened the door and found John, standing by their bed in his camouflage, and a pair of trousers in his hand. He caught the trousers mid-air when John tossed it over, and took the hint to put it on.

John turned around when Sherlock stripped off his robe, not wanting to ruin his appetite for later. When he heard the zipper being pulled up, he turned around and marched straight to the brunet. With one hand, he turned Sherlock around and held both Sherlock’s wrists behind his back, then marched him towards the bed. John gave Sherlock’s shoulders a kiss on each side, then shoved the taller man onto the bed, releasing his hands.

“Hands and knees.” John ordered, and Sherlock obeyed, climbing up on the turned down bed, his elbows and knees supporting his weight.

John took a minute standing back to admire the view before him. Sherlock, bent over on their bed, arse stuck up high with his back arched, making small movements trying to grind himself against the trousers. He raised one hand high, and swung it down on Sherlock’s right arse cheek, “stop that.”

Sherlock felt the sting that radiated out around his arse cheek. It didn’t hurt, just burned a little, but he was now more turned on than ever. Risking it, he let his head fall and saw John removing his top, only wearing a white undershirt and his camo trousers. Then he felt John coming closer, pressing those trousers against his arse. He felt John’s cock hard against him, even through both their trousers.

“John…” Sherlock whined, but all he got was another resounding spank, this time on his left arse cheek.

“Try that again, soldier.”

“Captain. Please…”

“Good man.” John praised while running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, then tugging it hard to pull Sherlock up, his chest flush against Sherlock’s back. When Sherlock leaned his weight back against John, the Captain wrapped his hands towards the front of Sherlock’s chest, palms brushing over Sherlock’s peaked nipples.

Sherlock was now breathing hard. Everytime John brushed his fingers across his hard nubs, it was as if he could feel John’s fingerprints brushing past. He was relishing the sensation when a sudden sharp pain-pleasure radiated through his bones.

John pinched the nipples between his fingers, and rolled them slowly, variating pressure to make Sherlock moan and keen. It was delicious, the way Sherlock reacted to the things John was doing to those nubs. It was getting difficult to stay in his trousers listening to Sherlock. The thought of the younger man all meek for him made him want to come just like that.

But tonight was all about Sherlock, to let him feel and enjoy the beauty of his own transport.

He continued to pinch and roll those nipples until Sherlock was panting hard, and with one last tug, Sherlock bent forward, losing strength to stay upright. John held him up by his torso and whispered in his ear, “shhh. I got you love. Let go, I got you.”

And Sherlock relaxed, slumped back down against John. The Captain removed himself from behind and laid Sherlock down on his back, with a pillow underneath his head, the moved to straddle Sherlock.

 

 **A little after midnight:**   
John has kept Sherlock hard and wanting all night. Neither of them had any release. John kept the game up and running, touching Sherlock in places the detective never knew was arousing before.

It was a little after midnight when John decide he’s had enough of little nibbles. Time for the main course.

He ground his cock down hard one last time against Sherlock’s straining trousers, and moved to the feet of the bed, taking his own trousers off before removing Sherlock’s. Both their cocks were straining, twitching, begging to be touch. It was apparent that John had more self control, because Sherlock was a babbling mess. His curls damp with sweat, face and chest flushed, splotches of bruises sporting in different places, some red, some purple.

John raised Sherlock’s legs and moved to bend them towards the brunet’s chest, but he had the shock of his life when Sherlock folded in half, his knees on the sides of his head.

“God! Sherlock! So fucking beautiful!” John gasped, trailing kisses down the back of Sherlock’s knee, thighs and his arse.

Sherlock now had his whole body weight resting on his shoulders and neck as John raised his lower half folded on top. John knelt on the bed and rested Sherlock’s lower half on his chest. His face was right where he wanted to be, right in between Sherlock’s plush bottom cheeks. He used his hands hook around Sherlock’s thighs to spread it open.

A trickle of cool air hit the most intimate part of Sherlock and he reacted by clenching. When he heard John took a deep breath, he relaxed and clenched again.

“Are you winking at me?” John tilted his head to the side to look at Sherlock.

Still breathing heavily, unable to speak, Sherlock nodded. And that must have been the right answer because John dove in immediately, lapping at the pink hole, covered slightly in fine dark hair.

John spent long minutes just licking on the outside, tracing circles around the hole, smearing saliva all around. When he got up to breathe, he saw it glistening, reflecting the bathroom light. He groaned, loud and deep, and that seemed to have made Sherlock even more aroused.

Sherlock squirmed a little hearing that possessive growl. He wanted, needed John. He had been hanging on the edge for the entire day and night. So he wiggled his hips which are still trapped in John’s arms.

“Should’ve known you’d make a demanding little bottom.” John chuckled and stuck his tongue where Sherlock wanted. This time, he pushed his tongue in and receive a loud high pitched moan from Sherlock. His jaws were starting to get sore, but his tongue seemed to be doing just fine. He probed deeper, and felt Sherlock’s hole clenching around his tongue, trying to pull his tongue in.

That was when John decided it was time to get to the main course. He removed himself from Sherlock, leaned up to pull his pillow down under Sherlock’s hips, “be right back. I just need to rinse so I could kiss you,” then moved to the bathroom.

While John was washing his mouth, Sherlock stretched in bed, and felt that bone deep satisfaction from their activities, yet having that urge to continue. It was an odd limbo to be in. Must have been caused by neither of them achieving an orgasm. He was thinking of the ways John would get them both off when said person came back to join him.

John let himself lie flat atop Sherlock and kissed him, shoving his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, teasing him to do the same. When Sherlock’s tongue came into his mouth, he nibbled it gently and kept sucking on it, not willing to let go. When Sherlock managed to regain his tongue, John leaned their foreheads together.

“I’m going to make you see stars tonight, even if you have no idea what they are.” John said huskily, voice hoarse from hours of disuse.

Sherlock felt a shiver down his spine. That snog was enough to turn him back on. His cock went from red to purplish in seconds, blood rushing down south a little too fast. He felt John’s hands trailing lower down his side, and ended up once again on his arse.

The pillow helped him tilt his hips a little higher, and he heard the lubricant bottle pump twice. Then he felt a slick fingertip prodding at his hole, eventually it did. It was definitely one finger and most likely only the tip, but it was warm and gentle, nothing like what he used to do to himself - clinical.

John eventually got the entire length of his index finger buried deep inside Sherlock. He fucked Sherlock with a finger for a minute or so, then slicked up the next finger to join the first. This went on again and again until John had four fingers cramped together in Sherlock’s tight hole.

But the brunet was most definitely savouring this. His breathing was becoming irregular, cock hard and leaking, twitching up from his stomach when John touched his prostate. He was gone the moment John had three fingers in him. The fourth finger was just a novelty.

It was tight. So fucking tight. John’s pinky finger was starting to cramp when Sherlock started to move his hips, fucking himself on John’s fingers.

“Oh fuck fuck fuck!” Sherlock started screaming and moaning profanities. John felt the telltale signs of Sherlock about to orgasm, and slowly pulled his hand away before Sherlock came. John wasn’t surprised when Sherlock whined the moment his fingers were completely pulled out.

John leaned down chest to chest with Sherlock, raising the brunet’s legs to the side wide open, and lined up his cock with one hand towards Sherlock’s hole. He rubbed the head of his cock at the entrance while staring at the debauched lover under him.

“Gorgeous. You’re fucking gorgeous Sherlock…” he whispered against Sherlock’s neck, gently nibbling around the chain of his dog tags around Sherlock’s neck. “Don’t come until I say so.” He switched to his Captain Watson tone.

When Sherlock opened his eyes and whispered “yes my Captain”, that was when he felt John slide into his anus all the way in one swift move. The fingering had left him gaping and slick, it was no surprise that he could take John’s cock inside him comfortably. But the heat and pleasure radiating from inside him was something he’d never experience before.

It used to be soreness, pain and sometimes it itches really bad when torn skin heals. Never pleasure like this. Feeling John’s cock sliding in and out, the head of his Captain’s length bumping against his prostate in every inward thrust made Sherlock scream out in pleasure.

“Feels good?” John asked while slowing down. He wanted to stretch this out as long as he could. He was getting addicted to hearing Sherlock make those sounds, especially the screams that synced perfectly with his thrusts.

“Good. Perfect. Don’t stop. Please, please. Captain, please. Don’t stop.” Sherlock babbled, drool leaking from the corner of his lips where his head was facing on the side.

John raised himself, releasing Sherlock’s cock trapped between them, and held Sherlock’s hard leaking cock in his hand. He kept fucking Sherlock at the same slow pace, this position enabled him to drag the head of his cock along Sherlock’s prostate.

“I want you to come on my cock alone. I’m going to hold you, but you need to come from this,” John emphasised what he meant by giving his hips a hard shove, pushing his cock hard against Sherlock’s spot.

“Yes, yes. Captain. I will. Oh god, I think I’m about to. Please please please…” Sherlock opened his eyes and threw his doe eyes at John.

That made John fuck Sherlock harder than before. He had the angle nailed, but those eyes made him lose control for a second, and he came deep inside Sherlock.

“Oh! Oh!” Sherlock moaned, “I can feel that, oh god, John!”

John kept coming, and didn’t stop fucking Sherlock when he did. He kept it up even when he felt like it was about to hurt. Then he felt the tight clench of Sherlock’s muscles around his cock, and his semen seeping down the channel towards the opening. John gave it a few more hard thrusts, and that was when he saw milky streams of cum gushing out of Sherlock’s slit. John’s cock was beginning to hurt from oversensitivity, so he pulled out, and shoved three fingers back into Sherlock’s arse, fucking the brunet with his own cum, slick and sloppy.

Sherlock was still leaking, his orgasm still riding high, but a shiver went down his spine, and he knew he’s had enough. “John. Captain.” He whispered, but his voice broke.

John felt the Sherlock’s shiver at his fingertips. He gently pulled out and wiped his hand on Sherlock’s bathrobe from the floor, then moved up to cup Sherlock’s face in a gentle kiss. He felt the detective shuddering, and realised a moment later that he was crying.

“Sherlock. Did I hurt you? I’m sorry!” John panicked, but Sherlock shook his head and wrapped himself around John.

“It was never like this. Never this… amazing.” Sherlock was about to tell John what had happened last time. “I never knew it could be this good. It used to… hurt, for days.” Sherlock sniffed, opening and closing his mouth a few times trying to start, but was cut off by John pulling him against the doctor’s chest.

John cradled Sherlock’s head in his arm against his chest, and massaged the back of Sherlock’s head gently. “Shhh… we can talk about it when you’re comfortable to.”

“You are the only one, John. The only family I chose. And you are enough… more than enough for a lifetime.” Sherlock whispered against John, dozing off quietly wrapped in the arms of his doctor.

“You’re the only family I’ve got too, Sherlock Holmes. The one and only I’ll ever choose.”


	25. Merry Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter - wrote a really long one yesterday! And was so busy with my Christmas party, I have no time!!!

“Merry Christmas, love.” John wished Sherlock with a kiss on his forehead. They fell asleep tangled up face to face, and it was the 25th.

Sherlock stirred, still with his eyes closed, nuzzled closer into John’s chest. His limbs pulled the doctor closer, tighter, until John couldn’t breathe properly anymore and untangled himself. Sherlock was still in and out of sleep when he felt a tingling feeling in his stomach, then a warm pool further down. He cracked opened his eyes and saw a bobbing figure under the duvet. And it hit him - John.

John darted out his tongue to lick on the pearl of precum at the slit. He personally loved being woken up to a brilliant blowjob, and wanted to do the same for Sherlock on their first Christmas together. He was suckling at the head of Sherlock’s cock when the duvet was flipped open. He looked up through his eyelashes, lips and tongue still swirling and sucking on the hard flesh.

Sherlock moaned when he saw John’s lips wrapped around his cock. It was a beautiful sight. With his brain still booting up, he could actually enjoy this as is. But on the other hand, he wanted to save this sight in his mind forever…

“Stop. Wait.” Sherlock said. John pulled away at that and sat back on his knees. “I just need to remember this.”

It took him a little longer than expected, but Sherlock managed to pin that picture of John at the door, to be filed in his mind palace properly later. When he was done, he looked back down at John and nodded.

John wondered if he had done something wrong, but it was Sherlock he was sucking off. Of course the git would want to save something up. When Sherlock nodded at him after a few minutes, he went back down on his stomach and teased Sherlock’s cock back to full hardness.

The room was filled with moans and slurping sounds, the smell of sex and morning sun. John wasn’t in the mood for teasing. He doubled his efforts and swallowed Sherlock down hard and fast. It wasn’t too long till Sherlock came, pulsing deep into John’s throat.

Sherlock was panting hard, his hair matted with sweat, his breathing irregular and eyes moist. John scooted back up and took his own cock in his hand, and just a few slick tugs, he came all over Sherlock’s stomach and now softening length.

Then the petri dishes appeared out of nowhere. While Sherlock was collecting samples from his own stomach, John lazed on the bed, unwilling to get out after that fantastic bout of morning sex.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“Was that my Christmas present?”

John couldn’t contain himself. He laughed roaringly, hopefully their neighbours were already up and about. He went to hug Sherlock, holding the detective face to face, one hand wrapped around Sherlock’s waist and the other tugging his head down for a kiss.

“No. I’m your Christmas present, and you’re mine. That,” John pointed to the bed where they just were, “was the beginning of all the Christmases we will spend together.”

“Sounds wonderful, John. Wonderful.”

 

Merry Christmas.


	26. Angels, Demons, Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again, playing fast and loose with the prompt. But you get the idea.  
> Warning, a little angst + comfort.

“Angels do not exist, Sherlock.” John quipped when Sherlock had deduced a case to be the act angelic intervention.

“There is no other way to explain this.” Sherlock waved towards the photographs pinned on the wall behind John. “I need an answer! There has to be another reasonable explanation!”

John knew Sherlock was just yapping about angels, demons and gods’ existence out of frustration, but it didn’t stop John from wondering if there was a god who brought them together, a guardian angel looking out for both of them until they had reunited?

“No, John.  _ Angels do not exist, Sherlock. _ ” Sherlock repeated what John said mockingly, with his lips pursed in a straight line, he went back to his experiment, swirling test tubes in the kitchen.

“Don’t mock me Sherlock. We don’t have evidence of neither. You can’t dismiss notions without evidence.” John said, then went back to scratching his head on how to write up their last case.

Sherlock pointedly ignored him.

 

Someone had knocked on their door, and it wasn’t the delivery boy. They knew for a fact it wasn’t someone for Mrs. Hudson because she had gone to her sister’s for Christmas and New Years. Neither was it Lestrade or Mycroft because they had plans on their own, and the latter never knocked, the prior always texted first.

“Go get the door please.” John asked nicely. He was making some good progress writing up on the case now. Earlier he was struggling with wording it, given the gruesome nature of the case.

The knock came again, and Sherlock made no move to open it. John cleared his throat and repeated his request a little differently this time. “Holmes. That was an order. Get the door.”

Sherlock scrambled, literally, to run down the stairs and answered the door. During that scramble, he broke two more test tubes, adding the total to twelve this week, and it wasn’t even Wednesday yet! 

John later swore he would have broke all of Sherlock’s test tube if he had known who was on the other side of the door. He could hear two sets of footsteps coming up, and clearly recognised one being Sherlock’s, the other...

“Hey John. Happy Christmas.”

John turned his head and saw someone he never wanted to see again. The demon that had been haunting him since he came back from the war. The mental stab wound that never healed, left open and covered up with layers and layers of plaster.

“What the fuck are you doing here? Get the fuck out.” John’s nostrils were flaring, and he felt his own nails digging into his palms. Clench and unclench, repeatedly. His shoulder was hurting, his heartbeat rocketing off the rails and he felt his own blood pumping in his veins.

 

The life that he chose to leave behind. The sister he wished he never had. The demon that outed the angel in his life. The sister who drank her life away, who drove his mother crazy, who drove him to go to war. Harriet Watson, her existence alone made John furious. The world doesn’t need someone like her. It would have been a better place without her. Life post-war was difficult enough with his primary shoulder shot, post-traumatic stress disorder, and a psychosomatic limp.

She made it worse by isolating him, ostracizing war-torn him from her life. Refusing to let him live with her. All she had to offer was a mobile that she didn’t want any longer. He had to swallow that bitter pill, because he had no choice. It wasn’t as if he had anyone to call or contact. He only accepted it to perhaps leave a video note when he finally had the balls to swallow the bullet.

Painful was an understatement. It aches, so bad, to the point where he wants to just end it once and for all…

 

Then he felt a calming presence wrapped around him. A familiar smell, a calm scent. The hushed tones of the man he loves. The angel that fell into his life unexpectedly, the one who watches over him constantly.

Sherlock.

They were in their bedroom upstairs.

“How did I get here?” John asked.

“You had an episode.” Sherlock thought for awhile and came to the conclusion that he shouldn’t mention  _ that _ person’s name so soon after John had came out of a PTSD attack. “The person downstairs probably triggered it. You collapsed as soon as you shouted at her to  _ get the fuck out _ . I carried you up here and we haven’t left since.”

“Har-- Ha-- She shouldn’t have showed up unannounced.” John stuttered, unable to bring himself to even mention her name.

At that, Sherlock knew he made the right choice to not mention Harriet Watson’s name at all. He could deduce a few things from how John reacted to simply seeing her face, but had no idea about the circumstances. John had never spoke about his relationship with his sister, only knew they had alienated each other since he came back.

The ‘why’ was unclear.

“John, look at me.” Sherlock held John’s face gently and turned it towards himself and looked him in the eyes, “you don’t have to tell me, but I want you to know that I’m here to help you fight the demons inside you. Always.”

“You’ve always been… my guardian angel. If I have to believe... in god... for you to stay, I will.” John said in short breaths, exhausted from earlier.

“Get some sleep.” Sherlock pulled away and tucked John into bed, “it’s only quarter past four. I’ll wake you up when it’s time for dinner. My mould should be evolving in six minutes. Glad you came back on time.” He gave John a peck on the lips, hovering close where the tip of their noses were still touching.

John tried to stifle a yawn unsuccessfully, and nodded, too exhausted to chastise Sherlock about growing mould in the kitchen. Eventually he succumbed to sleep with Sherlock still sitting on the edge of the bed right next to him.


	27. Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Smut ahead.
> 
> Handjobs can sometimes be even hotter than actual fucking.

Lestrade couldn’t believe his eyes. There he was, sitting an arm’s length away from the Imperial State Crown. The Queen was surprisingly candid about wearing the crown jewels, and why she hardly wore it.

“It’s much smaller, isn’t it?” She asked Greg when he couldn’t stop staring at the crown. “Very, very unwieldy, when my father wore it. It was taller then.” She raised her hand on top of the crown, about two or three centimeters higher than the actual one.

“Difficult for anyone to remember that diamonds are stone.” Mycroft commented, placing down his teacup without a sound.

“Fortunately my father and I have about the same shaped head. But once you put it on, it stays. I mean, it just reigns itself. And you can’t look down to read the speech. You’d have to take the speech up.”

“Why is that?” Greg asked. He almost stuttered, but managed to keep his cool… in front of the Queen.

“Because if you did, your neck would break!” She said with a smile.

She shared her rare memories from her 1953 coronation, while Mycroft sat quietly beside Greg across her. He was asked to go in to compose her story before the television crew came in for the official interview. They were making a documentary about her life, and Her Majesty, for certain, was going to make sure everything is in order.

Greg had took the weekend off in anticipation of a long weekend away with his fiancee. But when this request came in, there was no way Mycroft could say no. Therefore, they were here. Of course Mycroft had first requested for Her Majesty’s permission to bring Greg along, and she was absolutely thrilled to meet the man who ‘melted the Iceman’.

“I was pleasantly surprised when Holmes here told me he was engaged, and a fine man you are, Lestrade. Thank you, for serving the country and keeping its citizens safe.” She said when they were saying their goodbyes.

“Thank you, Your Majesty. I will send Anthea over shortly to monitor the television crew.” Mycroft said.

“Pleasure was all mine, ma’am. Thank you, for allowing me to witness something so incredible. I wish you the best of health.” Greg bowed and walked away with Mycroft.

 

Back home, he was still shellshocked, like it was all a dream. But you can’t simply dream about the fine details on the crown jewels without actually seeing it, can you? He was lounging with his legs on the sofa, in the living room in front of the fire, sipping on a glass of whiskey, when Mycroft padded up softly to him. He scooted a little and opened up his legs, so that Mycroft could sit in between them.

When Mycroft settled, he let out a long sigh, nuzzling into Mycroft’s hair behind his head. Although the minor government official was balding, there was still plenty to nuzzle into at the back.

“You smell nice.” Greg said, pushing his nose harder against Mycroft’s scalp, hands wandering lower on Mycroft’s body. He pulled off slowly pulled open Mycroft’s jacket, and the shifted for Greg to take it off, then dropping it haphazardly on the floor. Mycroft pulled a face, but Greg distracted him with a few tight squeeze on his crotch.

Mycroft pressed impossibly closer to Greg behind him. He squirmed when Greg smoothed those rough palms and fingertips across his cloth covered thigh, stomach, neck, all the way up to massage his scalp. He felt aroused by those touches, hoping that Greg would not keep his hands on his head for too long.

“I’d like to touch your  _ crown jewels _ .” Greg whispered into Mycroft’s ear, but that pun was too much…

“You are not making references of my penis and testicles to the…” Mycroft stopped, unable to reiterate those words without thinking of his crown jewels. He ended up shooting the nastiest glare he could muster at Greg, only to feel the man chuckle quietly behind him.

Greg’s hands definitely have left his head, and wandered down lower to undo his trousers. He said nothing, silently allowing Greg to fondle him through his pants, both hands now inside his open trousers.

“Someone’s eager.” Greg said, feeling how hard Mycroft was, and there was a damp spot where the  _ crown _ is. He reached lower, feeling Mycroft’s  _ jewels _ pulled up tight. “I’m going to rub those jewels of yours, and polish that crown nice and hard. How’s that sound?”

No words came out of Mycroft. All there was were heavier breathing. Mycroft felt a whiff of cold air hit his cock when Greg pulled it outside his pants, his balls still trapped underneath the band. He looked down, and Greg had one hand inside those pants, gently rolling them, while the other hand had a tight grip on the head of his cock, making short strokes with a twist. 

The room was filled with quiet moans and the sounds of two men breathing laboriously through their mouths. If you can hear past that, the slick sound of someone jerking off could be heard.

Greg felt Mycroft’s balls pulling up and out of his palm. He released them and palmed those jewels, making upward strokes while his other hand jerked faster. His wrist was starting to hurt. He should have switched hands in between, but it was too close to finishing the job now.

“Gregory…” Mycroft said in between breaths, “I’m so close.”

Greg gripped a little harder, still only making short strokes around the head, rubbing his thumb across the slit on every few passes. Right towards the end, he used his palm and made circular motions at the tip, then he felt a warm spurt, and another, and another.

Mycroft held his breath when Greg rubbed the tip of his cock. He knew he would come really hard and long. And as expected, Greg didn’t stop even after he came. His lover didn’t slow down or ease up, and continued to rub his cum on the head of his cock. It was now red turning purple, oversensitive to the point where Mycroft had to scream. He tried to get away but his hip was pinned down by Greg’s legs, his body trapped between the arms and hands still stroking him.

“Please…” Mycroft begged.

“What do you want?” Greg asked, hands now slowing down, returning to the short strokes he did earlier, grip still strong on the spent cock. When Mycroft made no comment, Greg continued, wondering if he could make Mycroft orgasm again without a break. He can feel the cock in his hand pulsing, blood still rushing into the organ.

What Mycroft said next made his blood rush into his  _ that  _ organ.

“Po-- polish my  _ crown _ , Gregory.” Mycroft stuttered in embarrassment, but that flew out the door when he felt Greg’s cock hard against his back, and the familiar smell of Greg’s musk filled his nostrils.

“Fuck.” Greg kept his hands busy on Mycroft’s  _ crown and jewels _ while he humped through his trousers into Mycroft’s lower back. “Say that again. You’re gonna make me come sweetheart.”

Mycroft repeated it again, but this time he tilted his head up, face flushed with his eyelids semi-closed, and dropped his tone two pitches lower. It came out like a whisper in the wind, and that had undone Greg. The DI jerked his hips a few more times against Mycroft’s back and the telltale signs of an orgasm could be felt. A long shiver, along with a few muscles twitching involuntarily, including the one on his arm.

“Don’t stop.” Mycroft said when Greg loosened his grip, “I’m coming again.”

“Fuck fuck fuck.” Greg swore and continued, “fuck me, Mycroft. You’re so hard for me. Cum for me. I want to see you cum all over that pretty waistcoat of yours.” He ignored the twinge in his wrist, and gave Mycroft possible the best handjob he could ever muster the strength to. 

Moving lower to jerk the length of Mycroft’s cock, he felt the muscle twitching. Mycroft’s semen from his first round was starting to dry up, so he removed the other hand and spat in it, using both hands now wet with saliva to pump that cock, so hard and fast that it would have chafed if he didn’t add lubrication. Keeping his eyes locked on the tip, he saw strands of precum dripping and pulled down by gravity onto the lowest edge of Mycroft’ waistcoat. Then a small pearl of white appeared, followed by Mycroft’s body seizing up, and with a sharp shriek, Mycroft came, shooting his cum hard onto his shirt collar. The second pulse hits the second top button of his waistcoat, the third a little lower, and the last dribbled onto Greg’s thumb underneath.

Greg gently released Mycroft and laid the man down, moving to the guest bathroom to strip out of his soiled pants, wrapped himself in a fluffy towel, then went back with a warm towel to wipe Mycroft down. He came back to a sleeping Holmes, drooling onto the sofa with his flaccid penis hanging out of the edge of his trousers. Greg thought it was a beautiful sight, to see Mycroft let his guard down around him that much. 

 

Mycroft would rather be caught dead than to be seen this way, but things had changed since Gregory came into his life. He had found peace with himself, and still learning to embrace these little things in life that makes it whole. He was in a dreamless sleep when he felt a little too warm. Forcing his eyes to open, he found himself in their bedroom, Greg plastered onto his back snoring away.

_ What an eventful day _ , Mycroft thought to himself while turning over to face Greg. Leaning his head down on Greg’s chest, he recalled the events that evening, smiling quietly in the arms of his fiancee, realising that Gregory Lestrade is as important to him as the actual crown jewels are to the royal family.

The one thing he would care and protect with his own life, for as long as he shall live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've hit a writer's block. Took me 3 days to write this short piece of shit. But I'm really happy with it. I think I'm a genius to write smut and Her Majesty in the same chapter without involving her at all.
> 
> The first part were exerpts from The Coronation: BBC One.


	28. Rooftop Dinner

**Sherlock’s POV**

It’s been a nightmare all day. We’d been in court the entire day yesterday, helping Geoff close a case by being key witnesses. Anytime Gareth calls, we are always there. But not today. I’ve switched off my mobile the moment we came back from court that evening. I had a lot to prepare for the next day. It was way past Christmas, but I still wanted to make that dinner. Although John had figured out about the turkey, fortunately he hasn’t yet figured what I was going to do with it.

That morning, while I was thawing the turkey, I made it seem like I was doing an experiment with it. Microscopes and test tubes were out on the table right next to it. I had the ingredients measured and in brand new test tubes, masking them as chemicals. It must have worked because when John walked in to make tea, and coffee for me, in the morning, he said he wouldn’t be able to stomach another turkey for another three hundred and sixty five days.

Perhaps he would change his mind tonight.

John announced that he’s going down to the surgery to cover for Sarah, and mumbled about getting caught idling earlier in the month. “I’ll be back by six!” John shouted from downstairs.

I heard him alright. The moment I heard the front door close, I ran to the window to watch John walk down the street, making sure he was far enough before I ran to the kitchen, prep the turkey and pop it in the oven when it came up to temperature.

Learning from the best, I’ve made sure to follow Mrs. Hudson’s instructions to the dot. I made sure I’ve crossed my t-s and dot my i-s, thrice now, and the flat was smelling fantastic. Every thirty minutes to the second, I bast the turkey and chopped the vegetables.

I’ve also…  _ ugh, disgusted to think about it _ , asked Mycroft politely for a dessert recipe. George sent it to me on behalf of my dear brother, because they were apparently on holiday, and Mycroft doesn’t have his phone with him.

I shuddered thinking about where they are and what they’re up to.

 

By half four, I’m setting up the table up on the roof, when I got a text from John.

**Leaving earlier than expected! Quiet here all day. Miss you. -JW**

**Chinese takeaway for dinner? -JW**

**No. Come back later. Flat is exposed to toxic materials. Keep to 7. -SH**

**WHAT DO YOU MEAN TOXIC?! OMG. If you’re not dead by 7 I’ll be there to kill you myself. -JW**

**Miss you too. -SH**

**Watch what you send. Anthea’s still monitoring my mobile o/b of my irritating brother. -SH**

***Kiss! I meant kiss you myself. -JW**

**Anthea, please. -JW**

 

I had to chuckle. Unbeknownst to most people, I chuckle a lot, especially around John. Giggle I do not. It’s something children and idiots do…

No time for semantics. I’ve got things to do.

After getting the actual food up on the rooftop, stored safely in a warmer, I head back downstairs to set up a crime scene. To throw John off the scent of roast turkey. I do this a lot, and I know exactly what I’m doing.

A fart bomb.

So much easier than wasting precious chemicals making ammonia smoke from a test tube. It was released six minutes before John was due, and I had my gas mask on.

When the front door opened, I heard John gagging. Success! I flung the windows and all the doors open to air the flat out. John came in with the sleeve of his jumper shoved in his face. Fortunately, he couldn’t let go long enough to scold me, unfortunately, he’s decided to investigate. Then he found the canister hidden under the sofa.

I pointed up and a muffled “rooftop” to him, and he nodded, walking up after me. When I got up there, seems like I’ve underestimated the little canister, because when I pulled off the gas mask, the nasty smell attacked my senses. Not as bad as the state of the flat, but still a little disgusting.

But when I saw John’s face, it was all worth it.

His eyes sparkled, hands dropped to his side and gasping with his mouth wide open. Then it seems like the smell got to him too, and he grabbed my gas mask from the floor and pulled it over his own face.

“Did you do this all by yourself?” He asked, looking through the foggy transparent glass of the food warmer.

I nodded, hoping that he would be pleased.

“That’s amazing! Was that why you didn’t want me home early?”

I wanted to speak, but the smell, oh god, the smell. I was starting to regret using a diversion tactic. I could’ve made the flat smell like roses instead and he wouldn’t have known better. I nodded again.

“Are you trying to talk but the smell is so horrendous, if a word leaves your lips you’ll throw up all over?” John was starting to be a little cheeky.

“Don’t be ridiculous. The smell isn’t as bad up here.” I said, using every muscle in my body to stop myself from gagging. Successfully too, I might add, because John bought it.

He took a huge whiff of the air, and smiled at me. The smile that doesn’t come very often. I’ve had all different variations of John’s smiles, laughters and facial expressions stored in my mind palace. This one only appears when he’s really really amused, pleased, and proud of me.

“Dinner?” John asked. I remember this. The first night we spent running across town chasing the cabbie. I’ve asked him the same when we were leaving that crime scene where he killed a man for me.

And I clearly remember his response. It was the word that changed my life.

“Starving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on a sprint to finish! Hopefully I'll be able to write the last three in the next 12 hours. It's 12pm as I post this chapter, and the last three are still empty...
> 
> I'll be spending NYE writing. Oh what a life.


	29. Snowball Fight

“Oh, Mycroft bloody Holmes!”

A voice jolted Mycroft and Greg in their steps. They were walking through Eckington’s market street towards the library hand in hand, on their little holiday before starting the new year back in London. Turning around, Mycroft saw someone he hadn’t expected to ever see again.

“I can’t say it’s a pleasure to see you, Derrick.” Mycroft deflated with Greg astonished and confused.

The DI’s confusion was understandable, given that he had never met any of Mycroft’s casual acquaintances. Mycroft didn’t move towards Derrick, but the other man decided to trot towards the couple and hug Mycroft.

“Shove off mate. He’s clearly uncomfortable.” Greg said with a hand on Derrick’s shoulder, gently pushing him off Mycroft.

“Come on. We used to do more than just hugging, hmm? Good ol’ days, right Mycroft?” He slyly commented in the guise of a question, obviously trying to rile Mycroft up.

Greg could tell Mycroft was agitated, losing the calm that he had honed for many years working as the British Government. He could also tell Mycroft was arming up to spit deductions into the other man’s face, but he prefered not to get into a confrontation, so he decided to pull Mycroft along, walking in the opposite direction of the library, back to their cottage.

Mycroft quietly followed, still huffing from catching up with Greg, his wrist held tightly by the DI. He let himself be dragged into the cottage and all the way into the bedroom. When they finally closed the bedroom door, Greg released his wrist and whispered quiet apologies for hurting him.

“Sorry. Must’ve hurt. Got a tight grip on you, didn’t I?” Greg then sat down on the edge of the bed.

“It’s alright. Doesn’t really hurt that much.” Mycroft answered and sat down next to him. They shared a glance at each other before looking away. “You want to know who was he.”

“Of course I do. Fucking idiot, thinking he could just… touch you. Sorry I took it out on you, dragging you along like that.”

Mycroft braced himself. He was hoping this would never need to be revealed, but he also knew one day it might happen.

“I had needs. Unlike Sherlock, I couldn’t possibly suppress them. We both have a limited capacity on that regard. He chose to suppress his biological needs whereas I’ve chosen to suppress my emotional needs. Which is why he throws tantrums while I do not.” Mycroft explained, risking to look over at Greg, who had slumped with his elbows on his knees, head buried in his hands.

“I understand. What was he?”

In Mycroft’s mind, he had no idea what Greg meant. What could he possibly mean by ‘what was he’? Did he want to know who he was? “What do you mean? Was he a colleague? Friend…  _ oh! _ ” Mycroft realised what Greg meant. “He was a… an expensive escort.”

“Escort services? Really?” Greg was now shellshocked. An escort. Never in a million years he would have thought to hear that directly from the horse's mouth.

“Shameful, really.” Mycroft blushed with embarrassment, but back when it happened, it was a commodity to be traded, a problem to be solved, and he had money to solve it. It came with a guarantee of discretion, nothing to be used against him in his trade.

“I need some air.” Greg announced, and walked out the bedroom. He went straight outside to the garden, and pulled out a cigarette from his pocket. It was his emergency stash, only smoked under highly stressful situations, and this called for one.

He was almost finished with the second, and contemplating to light a third when he heard the creak of the back door behind him.

“You will need a third.” Mycroft said to announce his presence beside Greg. “I deeply apologise for never bringing it out. I’ve lied by omission. Not something I’m particularly proud of, but I never meant for you to find out this way.”

“I’m alright. Just need to… vent. I’m frustrated, and angry, but not at you pumpkin pie. Never.” Greg pulled Mycroft into his embrace with the hand without the cigarette, and took one last puff before throwing it on the snow. “If I had found you sooner. That’s what I was thinking of.”

Mycroft soon found himself in an odd position, not sure to brush it off or to confront that statement. He kept quiet, watching a group of young children having a snowball fight down the road, and an idea came to him.

“You need to vent. Fight me.” Mycroft announced.

“No.” Greg responded almost immediately. “Won’t hurt you, ever.”

“Not like that.” Mycroft squirmed away from Greg and grabbed a pile of snow, crushing it into a ball and threw it straight into Greg’s face. “Snowball fight.”

“Oh, you cheeky bastard!” Greg was now smiling. That was a great idea. He needed an outlet to vent out some frustration, why not do it while making brand new sweet memories with the man he loves? Then Mycroft threw another snowball at him, making lewd gestures with his hands, goading Greg into a fight. “I’m going to get you for that!” He bent down and made a huge snowball, coming up only to find Mycroft running down the road towards the group of children.

“Catch me if you can!” Mycroft shouted, still running backwards. He had approached the children and told them there was a monster coming, pointing at Greg. Children, of course they would fall for it and play along. They built a barricade in front of Mycroft, guarding him from  _ the monster _ and threw tiny snowballs at Greg.

He retaliated, throwing the large snowball directly into Mycroft’s chest, the children too short to protect his upper body, then made smaller snowballs to play with the children. He kept his swings short, and only with his wrist to make sure they weren’t thrown too hard.

That went on for twenty minutes until the parents of those children had called them back. The couple thanked their parents, had a few passing sentences and went back to their own cottage, once again, hand in hand.

“Thank you.” Greg turned over and kissed Mycroft on his cheek. “For everything.”

“Thank you for forgiving me.” Mycroft turned his head a little and received Greg’s kiss on his lips. They were chafed from the cold, but undeniably Greg’s.

Both of them decided to take a hot bath before dinner, then after dinner they had a very diplomatic conversation about Mycroft’s past. Greg had also decided to recount the days he had in between his divorce and Mycroft. While they both shook hands to signify the close of that chapter, both of them knew it was already over before it began.

All had been forgiven the moment they started the snowball fight.

The rest of the lives would start anew from that moment onwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two down, two more to go! Wish me luck! If I don't write anymore tonight, if this is my last chapter for the year, wishing you all a fantastic 2019 with more great fics ahead!


	30. Weapons

John took a quick right, almost running into the bin in the alley. Sherlock had gone off in the other direction trying to block the suspect off. They picked up a case from Dimmock when Greg was on holiday. Apparently they had been trying to nab this guy for months, and finally had one reliable intel. When John and Sherlock went to investigate, they weren’t expecting the suspect’s elderly mother to stoop to any form of assault. She was bedridden, but had thrown her soiled adult diapers at them, one landed straight in Sherlock’s face.

But there was no time to wash, no time to care about the germs and bacterias spreading on his face. He had to get the suspect before he was gone, perhaps more than months this time. They may not get a break like this ever again.

John had his gun ready, finger on the trigger. He saw the shadow of the suspect running down the alley, and took the next turn. Before he got to the junction, he heard some bins getting thrown around, the muffled shouts of men, and Sherlock’s yelp.

“Shit!” John ran as fast as his short legs could take him. Sprinting closer to the junction, he checked his gun again, and pointed it at the alley the moment he took the turn.

He immediately lowered his gun when he saw Sherlock holding a blade, a long blade. More specifically, a katana. Where the fuck did the infuriating git had gotten that?

Sherlock had the suspect pinned on the ground with the long blade pointed at his throat. The suspect had given up, based on his body language. John quickly latched the safety back on, and hid his gun behind his back. Now, he had an extra moment to look at Sherlock holding the blade. His shirt was pulled tight, posture stiff yet elegant, muscles defined through his shirt wrapped tight across his chest.

“John, not now.” Sherlock groaned, noticing the bulge in front of John’s trousers.

For a moment, John wasn’t sure what Sherlock was referring to, until he felt a little flushed and light-headed. Following Sherlock’s line of sight, he looked down and saw the tent.

John moved a little closer and knelt over the suspect, pinning the suspect’s hands down with his knees. He looked up through his eyelashes at Sherlock, licking his lower lip seductively, “oh… sorry. Can’t help it when you’re holding a dangerous weapon like that but still look hot as fuck.”

“C’mon mate! I’m down here!” The suspect shouted in frustration, noticing Sherlock and John throwing eyes at each other.

“You’ll get your turn,  _ mate. _ ” Sherlock spat the last word at the suspect, then bent down to kiss John. “Hmm, someone’s happy to see me, or is that your weapon?”

“Get off me!” The suspect now struggled, unwilling to be caught in the middle of a snog.

Sirens were now heard coming from a distance, and footsteps approaching pried Sherlock and John apart. Dimmock was within eyesight when all three men stood up, the suspect reluctantly, with his hands pinned behind his back by John.

The suspect, unsurprisingly, made a major complaint about John and Sherlock’s behaviour, but was eventually given a slap on the wrist by Dimmock before released back home.

They were on their way home in the cab when Sherlock noticed John’s hard on hasn’t gone down at all.

“John.” He leaned over to the doctor, whispering in his ear, “is your gun in front of your trousers, or is that a weapon against me?”

“Hmm. Depends on what you want to do with it. Could be for you, could be against you. Who knows? This weapon has a mind of its own.” John replied cheekily.

Sherlock reserved his comment until they were behind closed doors of their flat. The moment he had locked the door, he turned to John and stripped down to his pants.

“Draw your weapon, John. The game is on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONE MORE! I think I'll make it! At this moment, it is 2035 hours.


	31. New Year's Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I MADE IT! This is the last chapter of the advent, and I hope you all have enjoyed it! Happy New Year xxxxx

Sherlock is an absolute mystery. Some days John wondered if he would ever get to know him fully, or will there always be something that surprises him. They had just got home from an adrenaline-filled chase, a case that no doubt had John’s blood pumping. As if that wasn’t enough, Sherlock stripped down to his pants in the living room of their flat, making a pun about his penis being a weapon!

“You continue to surprise me, honey.” John dove straight into Sherlock’s arms. He was still fully clothed, and he caught a whiff of Sherlock’s face when he leaned up to try and kiss the detective.

They both made a face, realising they hadn’t washed since the incident with that old lady.

“Yes, we should wash. No, you can definitely tuck your weapon back in its holster. I’m not kissing days old body waste from your face.” John said while pushing Sherlock towards the bathroom. He too, stripped and hopped into the shower, lathering up a few pumps of soap and scrubbing his face like his life depended on it.

On the other hand, Sherlock had his face washed by the sink. He had plans to make things roll as quickly as possible. He has less than ten minutes before midnight, and he had a goal to achieve.

Sherlock hopped into the shower, standing face to face with John while the shorter man was washing his hair. He wasted no time at all, going down on his knees and kiss John’s inner thighs. The man above him groaned in pleasure, cock bobbing mid air, water trickling down the tip washing off fluids that were leaking from it.

The detective held John’s hips and turned him around, pushing the doctor against the wall. He reached behind and pumped hair conditioner into his hand, and fisted both their hard lengths together. The slick sliding movements made them both pant in sync, slurping sounds loud, echoing in the bath.

When John tensed up, Sherlock eased his movements.

“Not yet, John. Not yet.” In Sherlock’s head, he was counting down the seconds. 74, 73, 72…

“Bed?” John asked, but Sherlock shook his head. Sixty seconds wasn’t enough for them to get to their bed upstairs and achieve an orgasm. He grabbed the nearest face towel and washed the conditioner off John’s cock, and stayed on his knees, pinning John’s hands to his sides.

Sherlock swallowed John down whole, hollowing his cheeks and constricting his throat, needed John to come in twenty-seven seconds. From the past one month, Sherlock had timed all of John’s orgasms, and had a chart made. There still wasn’t enough data, but he knew, after the chase tonight, John was pumped full of adrenaline and it would be quick and rough.

Fourteen seconds, and Sherlock kept at it, letting John fuck his throat hard and deep. He started humming and John was close. He could feel the length heavy on his tongue and in his throat twitching.

Six seconds. Sherlock let his lips loose and gently let his teeth scrape against John’s cock. Profanities were leaving John’s lips. 

He’s going to make it.

Three. Two. One.

John came. Load after load he ejaculated into Sherlock’s throat. He kept his cock lodged deep until Sherlock’s face started to turn purple. He pulled out slowly, and Sherlock started to breath.

And they hear fireworks going off in the distance.

“Bloody hell. That was… intense.” John knelt down to kiss Sherlock, and their mouths smashed together in a furious battle of lips and tongue. “Fucking hot, Sherlock. So. Fucking. Hot. There were fireworks going off in my head!” John gasped as they pulled apart.

“Happy new year, John.” Sherlock said after a few seconds, voice raspy from the blowjob he gave earlier.

“So… those fireworks weren’t just in my head?”

“Nope. You had an orgasm that lasted through the year. That was my gift to you. Bragging rights.” Sherlock said with a wink.

“Fabulous. And you, my love, surprised me through the year too. Happy new year, honey.” John was close to tears. Whether it be from the explosive orgasm, or the actions of the man who’s kneeling in front of him, it doesn’t matter. “As long as it’s always you, Sherlock.” He said out loud.

“And you, John Watson. You keep me right. I’d be lost without you, my doctor, my Captain, my blogger, and my partner. Every single new year for the rest of my life, I’ll be there.”

 

Always.


End file.
